


Please Say Something

by coletta



Series: You Can Tell Me Anything [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Coming Out, F/M, Gen, Hate Speech, M/M, Strong Language, Suicidal Thoughts, descriptions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-22
Updated: 2012-06-26
Packaged: 2017-11-02 08:48:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coletta/pseuds/coletta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>THE CONCLUSION. After Sherlock comes out, John thinks he's happy for his flat mate until he starts struggling with unexpected feelings of homophobia. Sherlock's trust is shattered when John breaks his promise to accept him unconditionally. CelibateSherlock/StraightJohn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brothers

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read alone or as a companion piece with "A Place for Quiet Conversations." This story picks up immediately after that one leaves off. WARNING: Suicidal thoughts, instances of hate speech, heavy, heavy angst ahead.

 

The restaurant was long closed. Sherlock and John's plates were scraped clean, the bottle of wine on the table was mostly finished, their glasses empty now. They were surrounded by deserted tables and the whole of London existed for them alone.

They had talked for a long time before they got on the subject of Harry coming out as a lesbian and John's story about reconciling his feelings for his sister. How, ultimately, he loved his sister and while he didn't agree with her life choices, especially her drinking, the fact that she was gay never entered into it. He spoke plainly about separating his perception of her unhealthy habits and her sexuality. He spoke about his prejudice, about his unconditional love, about his parent's disowning of Harry and about how John stuck by Harry even though he questioned it. He spoke his brotherly duties and the failure of his parents to love their daughter. He spoke of hope for the future, hope that Clara and Harry would work it all out somehow and it was never too late for love. John was…a little drunk.

And all the while, Sherlock was frozen by the beauty and goodness and magnificence and glory of John Watson. He wanted to scream. He wanted to tell John all about how things fell apart between him and Mycroft, how his situation had nearly been identical to Harry's. Except instead of drinking and partying, Sherlock developed a drug habit and dropped out of school. When Sherlock had sought reassurance from his brother upon realizing his orientation, Mycroft threw it all back in his face and the life-long sibling rivalry deteriorated into something darker and more hateful. "If mother finds out about just one boy," Mycroft had seethed, "I'm going to make sure she knows every detail about your cocaine habit. Don't you dare ruin our family by making your vulgar fetishes public." At the time, even Sherlock wasn't aware Mycroft had some vulgar fetishes of his own, which made the betrayal all the more hurtful. Mycroft got it all wrong, wrong, wrong, John had gotten it all right, right, right!

Sherlock wanted to tell John that he was the patron saint of closeted homosexual siblings, that Harry could never know how lucky she was to have John as a brother and that, most of all, John Watson was the most incredible man on earth.

Before he realized it, Sherlock realized he was actually saying it:

"I wish you were my brother. I wish I knew you my whole life. I wish you were around when I had difficult, frightening times so I could run into your room and spill my guts to you and listen while you say something spectacular and effortless and know in my heart you have my back. Because that's all I would ever need. I could do anything if you loved me. I could tell my mother and father how it really is. I could carry my head up high, tell every rotten kid who called me a freak that I'm not ashamed and _mean_ it. Because I wouldn't be a freak. I _wouldn't_ be a freak if I could just be _myself_ for a minute. I bet I could laugh like this all the time if you were my brother. I bet it would always feel as good as it does right now."

Spectacular and effortless were not words usually attributed by Sherlock to other people. And John was not accustomed to hearing Sherlock praise or compliment him in any way. Love, also, was not a polite word a man used towards another man, but Sherlock chose the word deliberately and said it with dignity and confidence. Because it was now or never. Someone had to know.

John face was pure shock. He wasn't stupid. He knew exactly what Sherlock meant.

Sherlock held his breath. He needed some sign from John or else he would break down. He couldn't believe he had gotten out as much as he had.

John offered, slowly, "You know. I don't have to be your brother to keep your confidence. You can tell me anything."

Sherlock still didn't breathe. _Oh my God. It's all going to be okay._

John added, " _Anything_."

Sherlock exhaled loudly.

John waited.

_Destiny_ was also not a word Sherlock used. Ever. No matter how perfect this moment felt, he knew in the back of his mind that he was more than a little drunk and John was more than a little drunk. A drunken confession was not what he wanted. And it left open the possibility that John might not remember in the morning, or pretend he didn't remember.

Sherlock lost his nerve and didn't say it then.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Instead, Sherlock nudged John awake at three in the morning.

John rubbed his eyes drowsily. "Hmm?" He had fallen asleep in the arm chair. He never even toed his shoes off. His coat was half-on. Looking around the dark flat, John could see they left their front door open. They must have been pretty drunk when they came home. His head still buzzed a bit.

"I'm ready to talk."

In the dark, Sherlock was just a faint outline; shoulders, hair.

John blinked uncomprehendingly. When realization hit him, he sat up. "I'll get up," he muttered. "Have you slept yet?"

"No." Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, knees drawn up to his chest.

"I'll put coffee on." When John returned to his chair, he had two steaming mugs. He silently offered one to Sherlock.

Sherlock's white hands reached out, his translucent skin catching the soft glow of the street lights filtering in from the windows and the dim kitchen light over the sink–the only sources of light in the flat. John couldn't tell Sherlock's hands were shaking until his fingers curled around the mug and the coffee within quivered and sloshed audibly. Sherlock brought the coffee carefully to his lips and sipped greedily, seeking comfort and distraction in the heat. By now, John's eyes had adjusted to the darkness and he watched Sherlock's haggard face relax as he drank.

John waited, not sure of what to expect, knowing exactly what to expect. He didn't want to speak; this was Sherlock's time to speak. Yet Sherlock's shaking hands troubled John a great deal. "Are you alright?" he asked.

The question roused Sherlock from his stupor. "Yes." He set his coffee down on the table, but his hands continued to fidget.

"Take your time," John encouraged, feeling very brotherly and supportive. This talk was a long time coming. He felt honored.

Sherlock's fingers unconsciously twisted in his night robe, pulling the material into knots. "You already know what I'm going to say. You _deduced_ it already." He said it with a kind of disappointment and hopeless disgust, as if deductions ought to only be directed at commoners, criminals and strangers guilty of anything, and now Sherlock was somehow lumped in with the rest of them, dull and predictable and drained of importance. Sex made people ordinary.

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're going to say," John lied innocently.

Sherlock shot John an angry glare, but his fiery temper quickly fizzled out from embarrassment. "I've always tried to be mindful of my behavior. Am I… effeminate?"

John almost laughed and quickly felt bad about it. "God, no. What are you talking about?" Really, it wasn't the suggestion that Sherlock was effeminate that was ridiculous, but that he was _mindful of his behavior_. When, _exactly_ , was he mindful? When he was an effacing, condescending snot or when he left deteriorating body parts in the crisper?

"Don't play dumb," Sherlock said sternly, his hands twisting in a nervous fit in his robe, the material beginning to tear only he didn't seem to notice. "Tell me the truth, no matter how harsh, but don't treat me like an idiot..."

John reached out for Sherlock's shaking hands, putting his own over his friend's to still them, to hold them. He couldn't stand to watch them writhe in fear anymore. There was nothing to fear. He was ashamed that Sherlock thought he had any reason to hide. John questioned himself, wondering if he had ever said anything derogatory or dismissive. Maybe he'd been too curt on one of those occasions they'd been mistaken as a couple.

Sherlock's eyes went wide when John gripped his hand. His carefully chosen words stumbled to a halt.

He just stared and John's hands, covering his.

Sherlock looked mesmerized. Then his whole body shuddered in the effort to keep his emotions controlled. He very nearly lost his composure right then and there.

John squeezed his hand until he got it back.

And that's when Sherlock said it; "I'm gay."

John kept his hands in Sherlock's, squeezing still.

Sherlock added, his voice beginning to waver, "And I've never told anyone until now."

He didn't count Mycroft. Mycroft hadn't allowed Sherlock to finish. _God, no,_ that was _not_ the memory Sherlock wanted to be confronted with at this vulnerable moment. _Oh God. Oh God, please make that hateful memory go away. John, please say something. Please say something spectacular and effortless like only you can._

And it was so surreal. To watch Sherlock Holmes, usually so elegant and superior, look so raw and vulnerable and say something so personal, reveal something that had been secret for so long, and then punctuate it with the heart breaking, unspoken question that was the _real_ heart of the matter; _Do you still like me? Are we still friends?_

Since John knew that silent understandings are no substitutes for truth, he answered Sherlock's unspoken question with a spoken, direct answer; "You're my best mate and I'm glad you told me this."

Sherlock was blown away.

Spectacular. Effortless.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

 

The thing about Sherlock's coming out was this; nothing changed.

It was now several weeks after the fact and John thought they were both adjusting nicely, partly due to the fact there was very little to adjust to. Sherlock didn't reveal he had a secret boyfriend. He didn't suddenly take on feminine mannerisms or reveal a lingerie obsession or leave lip gloss on the bathroom vanity or answer anonymous craigslist ads for hook-ups. He didn't start flirting with strangers. He didn't linger in John's personal space or make any advances or comments or gestures or unnecessary physical contact.

To John, that was terribly bothersome. He expected that, with all the effort it took for Sherlock to come out to someone, _anyone_ , that Sherlock could finally be free to be himself at last. Except, nothing changed, he was free but was exactly as he was before. Nothing changed at all.

And _that_ was the _one_ and _only_ thing John needed to adjust to: _Himself_ and his _own_ feelings about the matter. For one thing, it made him carefully examine his own attitude towards homosexuals. All that imagery about sexual aggression and effeminacy was ridiculous and riddled with unfair stereotypes. That he should expect, on _any_ level, for Sherlock to be any different now showed very poor judgment on his own part and left him feeling acutely guilty.

Sherlock was exactly as he had always been: a tense, miserable elitist and intellectual snob who took too much glee in the misfortune of other people so long as it provided him with a crime scene to lovingly _bond_ with. He remained untidy, demanding and obsessive. He was still a pleasure to be with and his impulsive adventures remained John's most relished delight. Gay, not gay, none of that changed. Their daily routines didn't change. And now that the truth was known (only between the two of them, Sherlock had impressed firmly upon John his wish for privacy on the subject as he navigated coming out at his own pace) Sherlock acted as if nothing had happened.

Really, he would have adored Sherlock all the same if he found out the man wore lip-gloss or ladies underthings or thrilled in secret trysts with men whose names he didn't know. Actually, it would have been a relief to know Sherlock had _any_ fetishes that didn't involve blood-stains and crime scenes. It would have been nice to discover a human being hiding under all that arrogance and posturing and beauty.

Now John wondered; What was the point of coming out? Why subject himself to ridicule, why risk rejection if Sherlock was committed to remaining celibate? Which was fine, as far as John was concerned, _just fine_ , it just seemed like such an effort to reveal something so deeply personal unless…

John wanted to slap himself sometimes.

Because it was the _truth_. Sherlock was attracted to men. He was orientated that way, and he wanted someone else to know. He wanted John to know because it was the _truth_ , not as a courtesy before he shocked his flat mate by bringing someone home of the unexpected gender for a shag. Because they were friends, so John had assured him, and friends trust each other and Sherlock wanted to trust John.

John kept reminding himself of this. Every day, he told himself this. Sherlock came out to John because they were friends.

_Not_ because Sherlock was attracted to John.

Every day, right before John told himself _Sherlock came out to me because we are friends_ , the thought that proceeded it was: _Sherlock came out to me, just to me, because it's the natural progression prior to confessing something else…_

John dreaded such a confession. He thoroughly worshiped Sherlock, but was completely unable to reciprocate any romantic or sexual feelings. Looking at himself objectively, he knew he was firmly heterosexual. John waited in dread for Sherlock to make a move.

Of course, John rejected his own suspicions. They were homophobic, he chastised himself. The idea was merely a projection of his own discomfort, and those feelings would disappear over time as he adjusted better. So John told himself. Nonetheless, the anxiety remained.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

 

One rainy afternoon, at the New Scotland Yard, Sherlock and John were climbing down a stair well. Their shoes were wet. John seemed to struggle with his footing on the slippery landing and Sherlock reached up and touched John's elbow, to steady him.

It was a benign gesture. One made a hundred times before, forgotten and meaningless.

Except John flinched and shot Sherlock a warning look.

And Sherlock froze.

John knew immediately he had made a mistake. But the damage was done. He kept completely silent and continued down the stairs, hoping the moment would pass and be forgotten.

For the rest of the climb, Sherlock remained one step behind John. He did not smile and there was no talking between the two men for the ride home.

And that was the first indication that everything was _Not Fine_.

_Not Fine_ , despite what John had assured Sherlock, despite what he assumed his own tolerance would allow. _Not Fine_ , despite his promises and despite the evidence that justice and humanity could triumph over darker human impulses like bigotry and intolerance. John didn't want to believe he could harbor such ugly feelings. He loved Sherlock. He _loved_ Sherlock, he told himself. They were best mates, brothers almost. And this experience had bonded them. But John...just felt…right or wrong…he had… _reservations_ he couldn't deny.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

_To be continued…_

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0


	2. Struggle

And so it deteriorated from _Its All Fine,_ to _Its All Fine But Maybe We Need To Talk it Out,_ to _Its Definitely and Decidedly Not Fine_ very quickly.

Sherlock had never mastered social graces to begin with. It was a product of his arrogance. That life-long arrogance allowed Sherlock to blindly walk into dangerous situations without concern, and when those situations blew up in his face he was always the last to understand why. Compounding problems further was the expectation that the detective, legendary for his observations, was incapable of missing subtle social cues that were plain to others. But he didn't really _miss_ them. He was just willfully, deliberately ignorant of them, as if tuning a distraction. Manners were complicated. They slowed brain-work. Sherlock simply deleted manners some years ago.

So he had habits. Bad habits. Habits that John had always tolerated, habits Sherlock thought were normal, like being excessively demanding, obnoxious, obtuse, impatient, rude, cruel and thick and brilliant. Except it wasn't normal, it had never been normal to ask John to drop whatever he was doing to race across town to be met with a simple task Sherlock wanted John to do because Sherlock couldn't be bothered. And eventually, John was bound to blow up about it. Anyone else would have seen that coming. It was inevitable. And it only made sense that John would lose his cool under times of elevated stress.

Like now. Like this morning.

Lestrade had beckoned Sherlock to hit and run that didn't sit with him as being quite so random. As Sherlock flew out the front door, he texted John and demanded he leave the clinic to assist him. John came promptly (as usual) and was miffed (again, normal) that there wasn't a true emergency that really justified his leaving work (A typical day, really. Could be any day. Today it was Thursday).

Sherlock brushed off John's frustration, per their usual. Everything was going swimmingly and Sherlock was in his element, feeling high and wonderful.

Until John snapped at Sherlock and called him a…not nice word in front of Donovan and Lestrade.

And it said it _loudly_ , just as Sherlock was turning away, and John had shouted it at his back. So when the _not nice word_ filled the air, Sherlock was facing the whole of Lestrade's team.

John really meant to say something else. But then the other word hit him just as his mouth was opening and _oh_ , that would _sting_ and it really _was_ appropriate to say such a nasty, nasty word because, really, Sherlock was a nasty, nasty soul. So cruel, so impatient, so hurtful and brilliant and for God's sake nobody _so intelligent_ had any business being _so thick!_ And one of these days, _just one of these day_ , Sherlock was going to know just how much it bothered John to be bullied, how humiliating it was to be summoned, to be forced to drop everything you were doing, race across the city just so you could be put down in front of people and called _stupid_.

" _Fuck_ you, too, you faggot."

Most people did not notice, but a few other detectives paused and looked over. Anderson looked for an uncomfortable length of time. Donovan cleared her throat and Lestrade looked away politely.

It brought all of Sherlock's brain work to a startling halt. His face turned bright red, heat rising from his cheeks. He felt as if the bustling crime scene, the busy street, the traffic beyond the yellow tape all came to a halt and every eye was on him.

Stiffly, Sherlock turned back around to face John, his voice intense and very, _very_ quiet: "What?"

By the look on John's face, Sherlock immediately deduced John's regret and embarrassment. He also quickly noted the bags under the eyes, the stubble, and his crooked collar. And lipstick. Shimmer pink lipstick in the corner of his mouth. Ah. John had not been at the clinic at all.

"Sherlock…." John croaked. "I didn't mean…not like that."

Sherlock was not capable of looking John in the eye. "Please leave." There was no anger in his voice. He couldn't possibly be angry when he felt so sick. He felt eyes all over his body, judging him. He was naked.

"I mean, I'm really..." John sputtered. "I don't know where that came from…I didn't mean to say that."

"People are staring," Sherlock said. No one was staring now, it was all in Sherlock's mind, but his skin crawled. "Please go home."

"You…don't want my help now?" John's embarrassment was giving in to his anger again. "You know, I am sorry, but I dropped everything to…"

"Shimmer pink lipstick in the corner of your mouth," Sherlock dismissed. "You weren't at work. It wasn't anything that couldn't wait."

John recoiled, his jaw tensing. "You know what? She's not a fucking leper. She's my girlfriend. And I like her. And you don't get to tell me what's important. Maybe I want to put her first for once. Except every text message from you sounds like a terrorist attack. Today it's a bloody car accident. Tomorrow it might be…you're too lazy to move from your chair and you need me to come home to put on tea. So fucking excuse me for being bent out of shape..."

"Fine. I assure you I can carry on better without you distracting me." Sherlock's hands fidgeted in his scarf tails. "I promise not to contact you again outside a true emergency, whatever that might be." With that, he briskly turned away and fled into the crime scene.

John had gambled a lot in Afghanistan, loved cards. This was the first time he ever realized Sherlock had a tell.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

 

John was still away when Sherlock returned to the flat. It was very late and Sherlock had expected John home by now. He resisted the urged to text John. The good doctor would come home when he wanted.

Sherlock's mind was empty. There was usually a great deal of chatter going on up in his head, many experiments running their course, many observations being catalogued and departmentalized. But there was only one word in his head still. A very not nice word.

Sherlock considered the word somberly.

He tried to play the violin. He sat down on the sofa and reached for the instrument, waiting for him on the table. But as he reached out, his own hands caught his attention. He had very slender, delicate fingers and well manicured nails. He curled his hands up and considered his nails. Very feminine.

He decided against the violin.

He took out a notebook and set it down on the table, reflecting on the word John had used. He wrote the word down and studied it. He wrote it down again. He flipped the notebook, wrote the word and all the letters backwards, got up and stood in front of a mirror and held up the backwards letters so they read forward in the reflection, like a caption. Sherlock read the word over and over again. It was like a name hovering under a school picture. And it was his name now. It was the name John affectionately selected for him. It was part of his identity, never to be deleted.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

 

John came home in the early morning while it was still dark out, presumably because he tried to spend the night at Sarah's. But John never called and didn't answer any of his texts.

Sherlock was still up. He had filled the notebook with his new name. "You're stomping," Sherlock observed dryly from the sofa, laptop perched on his thighs. "Did Sarah ask you to leave? Were you belligerent?" He sniffed, smelling alcohol. "God. Are you drunk?"

John put up his coat on the rack once he stepped through the door. "What?" His cheeks were red. It wasn't from the cold.

"You escaped to decompress, but you're returning more stressed than when you left. Your manhood has not been validated. You want me to know you're angry and unreceptive by stomping up the stairs," Sherlock pointed out firmly, calmly, though inside his chest his heart was racing. "I'm letting you know your anger is acknowledged and you don't have to make any additional or escalating gestures of violence to gain my notice. You have my undivided attention. Nonetheless. We need to talk. No matter how angry you are, how tired, we need to talk."

John stared blankly at Sherlock, brows furrowed.

Sherlock studied John's face. Sensing he'd already made an error of some kind, he looked down at his laptop screen and scrolled furiously, read something and then looked back up at John. "Or I can listen," Sherlock corrected. "That is, if you want to talk. I'm flexible."

John shook his head. "What…the hell are you doing?"

Sherlock turned the laptop around to reveal a dense word document. "I wrote down what I've been thinking since you left so when you returned I could articulate my feelings properly. They never come out the same way the second go-round."

John said with great impatience, "You made a Mad-Lib. You're using a Mad-Lib to navigate a conversation with me."

"I don't know what that means." Sherlock turned the laptop back around and read until he found his place. "I wrote in my notes if you said anything I didn't understand, I shouldn't nod or make any false gestures to placate you but instead be honest about my short comings and limitations..."

"You have fun with that. I'm going to bed." John turned out the door.

Sherlock pushed aside the laptop and jumped to his feet after John and followed him to the bottom of the stairs. "John, wait." He reached out and tried to take John's hands.

John swatted Sherlock's hands away and began up the stairs.

Sherlock was right behind him, his long legs skipping steps to catch his friend. "John!"

John ignored Sherlock.

Sherlock shouted at John, anger rising in him for the first time; "You called me a _faggot_!"

At the top of the stairs, John paused without turning around and his shoulders slumped.

Sherlock said, "I'm not a stranger to slurs and verbal abuse. You aren't even the first person who's called me…that. That word has never haunted me before but with your insult, I could see Donovan and Lestrade and Anderson and everyone else imagining me in the throes of some filthy, degrading sexual act they smugly assume I've tried. The snickered knowingly at me, as if they're clever, as if they've deduced something about me. But their assumptions couldn't be further from the truth. I wanted to scream all morning, proclaim my innocence and curse them for thinking I'm just another shameless, mindless, rutting animal like they all are. But by the time I was finished being shocked, I realize I'd wasted hours on my embarrassment rather than on the crime scene."

John didn't turn around. He just stood silently at the top of the stairs.

Sherlock continued; "Let's forget this ugliness. I forgive you. I hope you forgive me." He reached out a nudged John's elbow. "Turn around and shake my hand and let's agree to not be angry anymore." He held out his hand expectantly.

John turned around slowly. "Shameless, mindless, rutting animals. Like _we_ all are."

Sherlock blinked. "What?"

John took one step down the stairs towards Sherlock, nose-to-nose with the other man. "What you said. Shameless, mindless, rutting animals. Like. We. All. Are. Like _me_. Like _Sarah_. Like…we should all be ashamed. _You_ , on the other hand, are somehow better than the rest of us." He made a vague gesture with his hand. "Better than Donovan and Anderson with their furious _floor washing_. Do you have any idea how you sound?"

Sherlock sneered in disgust, John's drunken breath offensive. "You're being too sensitive. You're blowing what I said out of proportion."

"So are _you_ ," John said, taking another angry step down, and at that Sherlock retreated a step. "You're acting like I'm a bigot. Like I can't josh you. Like…you don't deserve to be knocked down a few pegs when you're acting like a complete and total ass."

"It's a repulsive word," Sherlock said bitterly. "No one deserves to be called that."

" _Stupid_ is a repulsive word," John pointed out. His anger was very muted, boiling. " _Idiot._ That's a repulsive word. You toss it around like it's nothing, no regard for anyone's feelings. Why should _you_ be insulated? Are you ashamed of being gay? And please explain it to me, Sherlock; how the _hell_ are you gay?"

Sherlock realized he was still holding out his hand. He looked down at it. He looked at his fingernails, his feminine fingernails. He let his hand drop to his side.

John leaned forward. "You're just being a miserable bitch. Well, I don't like it. I don't like how you're _changing_ …"

_Miserable bitch._

The hair on Sherlock's arms and neck bristled.

" _I'm_ not any different, _you are_ ," Sherlock hissed. He wanted to sound angry, but he couldn't. "You said were best mates. You said you were _glad_." In a moment, Sherlock dared to climb up to the step John was standing on. "It's okay to feel uncomfortable. It's okay to struggle. I'm struggling, too. But the truth is better than silent understandings and dirty secrets. So let's talk it out. Please say something. John." Sherlock's trembling hand found John's, his fingers curling into John's palms. " _John_."

John moved before he thought.

When he shoved Sherlock back, _hard_ , Sherlock's heel dragged into John's toe and he lost his balance. His leg buckled and he fell, though as he flew down he grabbed the hand rail, which broke his fall, then his grip slipped and he crumbled a few steps down. The impact was less spectacular than it potential could have and Sherlock was injury free, not even a scrape or a bump on the head. Nonetheless, his pulse hammered in his throat, his eyes wide.

He sat there for a long time, just looking at John. But John barely gave him a backwards glance as he went up the stairs.

Sherlock picked himself up breathlessly and waited for John to acknowledge the accident (it _had_ been an accident, Sherlock told himself, John couldn't _possibly_ have _meant_ for him to fall, how could he expect him to fall when being _pushed down a flight of stairs_ , no, clearly Sherlock had been careless and tripped, that was the only explanation) but John didn't even look back.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

 

John never apologized for it, even in the morning when he was nursing his spectacular hang-over and Sherlock made John tea as a peace-offering.

John ignored the tea, not because Sherlock had made it and he was mad at Sherlock, but because he was hung-over and dizzy and never really noticed it. Quite frankly, he couldn't remember much of the night before.

Sherlock watched intently as the tea got cold on the coffee table, and then later watched John unceremoniously dump it in the sink, grumbling about the constant mess.

And so it became _Its Definitely and Decidedly Not Fine_.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Cases came and went. For the most part, Sherlock investigated alone while John tried to invest more time into the clinic and Sarah.

To Sherlock's intense embarrassment, cruel rumors and nasty jokes began to circulate at the New Scotland Yard at his expense, mostly due to the not-nice word John had called Sherlock.

"Hi queer," Donovan cheerfully greeted instead of calling him a freak, pulling aside the police tape so that Sherlock could pass by.

He didn't acknowledge her.

Sex had made him ordinary. Mindless, rutting animals. Degrading sex acts. He was a joke, now, somehow more of a joke than before when he was just a freak.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

 

The hit-and-run case was solved, a scam, an insurance scam, _dull_ , but no enjoyment came from it. Instead of basking in the detectives' frustrations, he left as soon as his function had been fulfilled.

The subsequent weeks were less tense, because John and Sherlock were preoccupied with other things. John's investment with Sarah finally paid off. He spent the night at 221b less frequently. Sherlock threw himself into cold cases and eagerly responded to every text Lestrade sent his way, no matter how tedious the crime.

Sherlock was relieved that John spent so much time away. When John was away, sometimes Sherlock worked, sometimes tortured his violin, but mostly he continued to type his thoughts in a long, apprehensive stream of consciousness recorded in a text document. The exercise helped Sherlock order his thoughts. Eventually, when he worked up the nerve, he would approach John and try to have a conversation again.

Except that it was growing apparent that Sherlock would never work up the nerve again.

He approached John three times. Each time, he got within ten feet…and veered off into another direction. This continued on until Sherlock could admit to himself that he feared any encounter with John, because no matter how innocent, there was the potential it would provoke the unpredictable war vet to violence. It took several more days until Sherlock realized that meant he was afraid of his flat mate.

From then on, their former friendship was abbreviated to "Good morning," and "Good night." Sherlock's promise to not summon John short of an 'emergency' made him reluctant to contact John at all, or even look up from his laptop when John walked by.

One night, after much going back and forth with himself, Sherlock sent a simple text message:

_I know you don't want to be flat mates anymore and I completely understand. I don't want there to be any ugliness between us. I want to remain friends. To that end, I would like to talk things out. Please. -SH_

On the other side of London, John, in post-coital bliss, deleted the text message off hand without reading it, then rolled over and kissed Sarah.

The next day, Sherlock waited anxiously for John's response when he returned home. John never mentioned it.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

 

_To be continued…_


	3. Friends

_Have you seen Sherlock?_

_Not since the hit/run was resolved._ A moment later, John's phone chimed another response from Lestrade: _I have cases for him but he hasn't answered my txts._

John frowned at that response. His fingers flew across the screen: _How long?_

_Since hit/run._

_How LONG ago was that?_ John typed, scowling.

Lestrade's response took a minute. Finally: _Don't you two talk anymore?_

John stood silently in the doorway of their flat. He held his cell in his hand. He slid it shut and pocketed it.

No. They hadn't talked. Not in a long, long while.

The door to 221b was open when John came home. Peering inside, the flat looked almost normal. Except that the violin was smashed on the living room floor, the broken strings curling, the wooden neck splintered. The lights were all on and it was mid-day. So. It had been laying there since the night before. Or, possibly, since two nights before. John had done a double yesterday, spent the night at Sarah's, then done a more forgiving six hour shift this morning. Really, it would be his preference to freshen up at Sarah's. She wasn't home but he had his own key now, but he'd run out of fresh clothes, so he came back. To find this.

John entered the flat slowly.

Tense. High alert. His eyes darted around the room, looking for signs, for _evidence_. He stepped gingerly, fearing his home had become a crime scene. "Sherlock?" he called.

The living room was empty. The kitchen was empty. The bedrooms were empty, all the doors open. John turned a corner. At the end of the hallway, the bathroom door was shut, the only shut door in the flat. A light glowed under the door. The soft hum of the air vent.

"Are you home?" he called. "Sherlock. It's John."

No response came from the bathroom. No movement. Well, that wasn't normal. Who took a shower with the front door wide open? Who took a shower…without the shower running?

John's heart sank. Oh, _Sherlock_.

_I wish you were my brother._

He walked to the bathroom door. Gingerly, he placed the palm of his hand against the door. After a moment of reflection, John settled his forehead against the wood. _Sherlock_.

_I wish you were around when I had difficult, frightening times so I could run into your room and spill my guts to you and listen while you say something spectacular and effortless and know in my heart you have my back. Because that's all I would ever need. I could do anything if you loved me._

Throat dry, he swirled his tongue around the inside of his cheek to coax saliva, so he could speak. It was hard to do. "Sherlock? Are you in there?" John waited for a while, mostly to gather courage. His hand curled around the door handle and nudged the door. It was not locked.

_I could carry my head up high, tell every rotten kid who called me a freak that I'm not ashamed and_ _mean_ _it. Because I wouldn't be a freak. I_ _wouldn't_ _be a freak if I could just be_ _myself_ _for a minute._

The door swung open.

_I bet I could laugh like this all the time if you were my brother._

But Sherlock was not face-down on the floor in a pool of his own blood. He was not slumped against the wall with a needle in his arm. The bathroom was empty.

On the sink basin was a lipstick. The cap was off, the wax exposed, the tip crushed. It was a shimmery pink color. John went to the sink and picked up the lipstick in puzzlement.

John looked up at himself in the mirror.

_**FAGGOT.** _

Written in shimmer pink lipstick, hovering like a caption over his reflection.

It startled John. He took a step back.

_I bet it would always feel as good as it does right now._

_  
_

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

 

St. Bart's hospital morgue was quiet.

The office was dark, the door shut. The lights were off in the morgue. Sherlock simply let himself into the lab.

He was between cases. He was bored. He didn't know where John was. He hadn't been back to the flat in a few days. He'd woken up in a bus station this morning and he was wearing the same clothes since yesterday. His phone battery was dead and he didn't care. He was slightly delirious and his moods were wildly fluctuating. He'd wept in a men's public washroom at one point and screamed at nothing and laughed at nothing, then grew quiet again.

He walked over to a work station with intent purposelessness and sat down in front of a microscope and a sleeping monitor. He nudged the mouse to rouse the computer. He'd check his email. Update the blog. No. Take down the blog. Update. Leave Mycroft a message where to find his body.

Sherlock heard people climbing the steps in the hallway. He scowled when he heard familiar voices. He was glad all the lights were off. Maybe no one would notice him here. He was tempted to shut off the monitor, but he didn't want the sudden absence of light to draw attention. He just waited.

"Freak's in."

Sherlock didn't turn around. He scowled at the wall. Fucking _of course_.

They didn't stop to pester him. They continued walking. They chuckled to each other and continued to mock him, their voices growing distant and mercifully inaudible…but not before Sherlock heard one asking the other if they thought Sherlock was here for his monthly AIDS test.

Sherlock's fingers dug into his thighs. He pierced the cloth and his skin.

But before he could explode, Molly Hooper did.

She somehow heard the comment from two rooms away behind a closed office door, which suddenly flew open.

Sherlock jumped because he thought he'd been alone in the morgue. The light had been off in Molly's office. The diminutive brunette in the rumpled lab coat breezed through the morgue swiftly, the rushing air in her wake causing caught Sherlock's coat, and it billowed as she passed.

Sherlock pretended to remain attentive to his task and tried not to react as she passed behind him. He couldn't help but shrink a little, then once she breezed by he watched intently out of the corner of his eye, in rapt attention, his mind rapidly considering the possibility that two of Lestrade's team were about to be horribly murdered.

But she didn't pursue them. Molly stopped just short of the door, slamming it hard, shaking the wall and rattling the countertops.

Sherlock remained unmoving, eyes hovering over the microscope, the slide under the light empty of a sample. The dish holding his slide had rattled slightly. He touched it gently, trying to move his imaginary experiment back into place.

Molly turned around, not looking at Sherlock. She didn't say anything as she walked back towards the office, her steps stiff and angry and fed-up.

Sherlock's mind was  working. Molly was _incapable_ of spontaneous hostility. The detectives' ill-timed visit to the morgue was just a coincidence. Sherlock knew _he_ could have just as easily been her target had his activities in the morgue disturbed her instead. All the same. It was reassuring to know Molly was a potential serial killer under all that gracelessness.

Against his better judgment, Sherlock said without moving, eyes still fixed above the microscope; "Molly. Didn't know you were in…"

"They were distracting me," Molly interrupted impatiently. "I didn't do it for you."

Sherlock kept his eyes still. "I promise I won't let your spontaneous gesture of hostility go to my head." He paused thoughtfully, continuing to speak against his will: "Still. Since my homosexuality became common knowledge, you are the only person who has defended my honor."

Molly said, "That's because nobody likes you."

 _Wow_ , she was startlingly brave tonight and that __wasn't_ _ to be tolerated, especially after he had begrudgingly offered her his thanks. Well. Not in so many words. The implication was clear. "Nobody likes you either," Sherlock bristled with a vile sneer. "They're just _nice_."

Molly's eyes were puffy. "They're not __always__ nice."

Sherlock continued to stare at nothing in his empty slide, his face retaining that twisted grin. "Thinking about killing yourself again?"

Molly flinched.

"I think about suicide compulsively," Sherlock confessed emotionlessly, his words eerily enhanced by that unnatural smile. "I fantasize about it. I didn't used to be like this." With that, Sherlock finally shifted in his seat, turning to face Molly mechanically with dead eyes and a happy mouth. "When you're holding a fist full of pills on your bathroom floor, what do you tell yourself? What do you say so you can put on a brave face and go to work?"

Molly hugged herself tightly, making her body as small as possible. "I feel sorry for you."

Sherlock nodded, taking mental notes eagerly. "Then what?"

"No," Molly said, "that's _not_ what I tell _myself_."

Sherlock snickered. His laughter was dark and threatening. "That's rich. That's just rich. You _used_ to be intimidated by me. Now here you are. You know I'm gay. You think less of me. That's how _much less you think of me_." He stood up from the stool and was pleased when Molly backed away. "You went from admiring me, harboring _feelings_ for me, to resenting me, to feeling sorry for me, sorry enough to step in a shoo away some _bullies_ who were _picking on me_. I think I'm going to blow my brains out tonight. I can't take it one more day." Sherlock's eyes were absolutely empty, frighteningly empty. " _Tonight,_ Molly. When I get home."

Molly was aghast. "Why are you telling me this?"

Sherlock responded, both smiling and shaking; "There's no one else to tell." And it was the truth. He had no friends. He never did.

Molly's fists clenched in front of her. "It's harder to kill yourself than you think." She slightly jutted out her chin, like she knew from experience. "I bet you can't do it."

At that, Sherlock smiled wider, revealing teeth. It was a challenge then.

Molly's face was contorting, her nose turning red. "You really would, wouldn't you? You would really tell me you were going to kill yourself and then go and do it. You're so horrible." She stepped forward aggressively. "You're such a spiteful, hateful person!"

Sherlock said fervently, "You got a lot of free time on your hands now, right? Do this for me." He shrugged off his coat and shoved it into her hands. "My key is in the pocket. Come in the morning to my flat. I'll be in the bathroom. I'll leave the door cracked. When you find me, call the police and say I left the coat here tonight and you were returning it to me and that's how you found me. No one will question it." He straightened himself up. "Cry. Pretend to be distraught. Maybe it will shame the hospital into letting you keep your job."

"No." Molly tried to shove the coat back into Sherlock's grasp, like it was a basket of snakes. "No!"

"Do it!" Sherlock insisted angrily, shoving the coat back towards her. She was his suicide note. He needed her to cooperate. "Tell my brother I love him. Tell John I'm sorry. Tell Sally she was right and Lestrade he was wrong _. You tell them that_. But tell them in the morning."

"I won't let you bully me!" Molly shouted. "You can't make me carry your secret. If you kill yourself, I'll tell everyone what you told me to do. I'll tell them that you thought of me, even tried to help me keep my job, that you were _nice_ …" She paused. "How did you know?"

"Your lab coat is wrinkled, like you don't care anymore. No make-up. You didn't even shower. You're too much of a professional to come to work like that. And you've never said a hurtful word to anyone in your life, even when they deserved it. It's your defense mechanism, one that clearly didn't work when you were singled out for termination." Sherlock pointed at her black office. "And you were crying alone in your office in the dark and there's a roll away under your desk. Despite putting in so many hours you've actually slept here in an effort to save your job, you're getting laid off."

"Yeah." She sounded so tired.

Sherlock put his hands on his hips, feeling accomplished.

Molly looked down at the floor. She turned away and went into her office. She crouched and crawled under her desk and dragged out a roll-away cot, unfolded it and smoothed the mattress out. She reached under the blanket on the cot tucked into the mattress and pulled out a medicine bottle Sherlock recognized immediately as antidepressants. She sat on the edge of the mattress and stared at the bottle in her hand for a while.

Sherlock watched her, the smile slowly fading on his face.

Molly said, gently turning over the bottle: "When I first started working here, there was a string of arsons." Her eyes unfocused, her mind withdrawing into the past. "There was this office building on fire. Maybe a dozen people jumped from the roof to escape the flames. When we processed their bodies, I remember how their hands and feet were charred black, how the skin was split open from swelling. And I wondered…how long _I_ could do it? How long could I cook before jumping? And if I was _that_ hot, if I was burning alive, would I even be scared to jump? Would I even fear the impact? Or would I be in so much pain that the reptile brain would just take over, fight or flight, right over the ledge without rational thought? Of course, it couldn't have been blissfully fearless as that. Just _look_ how long they waited before jumping, all burned and terrible. They must have been so scared." She sighed. "I don't begrudge those poor people for jumping. They were going to die anyway. So for the remainder of their lives, they would suffer, languishing in unbearable pain, never to be relieved. Logical end, really."

As she spoke, Sherlock was walking slowly towards here, drawn in.

Molly continued, "Since then, I've seen lots of suicides. Graduates drowning in student loans. Unemployed fathers with an underwater mortgages, their families facing homelessness just as soon as the default notice comes from the bank. Soldiers come home from Afghanistan to find their wives have been cheating. Teenagers. _Lots_ of heartbroken teenagers." She glanced up at Sherlock. "And a lot of young, gay men." She paused. "Everybody commits suicide for the same reason. They think they don't have any alternative. They think they're going to suffer for the rest of their lives, just like the people who jumped from that office building. Can't people see that most problems, while real and serious, are temporary? How can they get so overwhelmed by a fleeting situation that all they see is _fire_? It gets better. It really does." She laughed humorlessly.  She tossed the bottle of pills in the waste bin.

Sherlock looked down at his feet, feeling heat rise in his cheeks. He didn't have a thought in his head.

With a sigh, Molly stood up, shrugged off her lab coat and wadded it in her hand, looked at it for a second, then dropped it on the floor. She unclipped her name badge from her blouse and dropped it in the floor. She took her purse off the desk, slung it over her shoulder and stepped unceremoniously over her discarded identity and emerged from the office, closing the door behind her. "Lock up when you're done," she told Sherlock. "Whenever you're done."

"Leaving?" Sherlock asked.

"Yep. Have a nice life." Molly was pleasant again.

"You as well," Sherlock said numbly.

She passed by.

As she went, Sherlock felt a tangible aura of all things Molly Hooper; sweetness and sadness and courage and determination in the face of unfairness and injustice. He breathed in her spirit in like a passing fragrance, and it made a little warm spot in his belly. And when she had walked away, he felt all trace of those feelings drift away with her and the warm spot became cold. God. That's how John had made him feel once.

God save Molly Hooper, the patron saint of lost causes.

Sherlock stood still. He let Molly walk as far as the door before saying, "Join me for coffee?"

Molly froze. She turned around slowly, her face puzzled, like she didn't believe what she had heard.

Sherlock turned around to face her. "Just friends. Coffee."

 

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Later, much later, Sherlock tapped on the glass. "Can I have my phone back now?"

The nurse was sitting at her work station, reviewing the visitor log, preparing for visiting hours. She was black and had striking blue eye shadow and jingling hoop earrings. Without looking up from her task, she pointed to the community room. "You can use it in the visitor center room during calling hours." She had a thick Haitian accent, everything she said dripped with unintentional _awesome_. She tapped the plastic, cream colored land-line next to her desk, looking quite retro. "Or. With permission from doc, you can make a phone call from here."

Sherlock scowled. "Why? Why can't I have a private phone conversation in my own room?"

"Because you should be free of outside distraction and should concentrate on your treatment, same reason we don't let family and friends visit at all hours."

"I haven't been medicated," Sherlock said resentfully, pacing back and forth before the glass encased workstation. "I'm not being treated. I'm bored."

"You came of your own accord, you can leave if you're going to be disruptive."

Sherlock spun back around. "I'm not disruptive, I'm charming. Anyway, how are you going to talk to me like that? I'm suicidal. I could…I could…"

The girl looked up boredly, a slight mocking smile. "You'll what?"

Sherlock looked around for some object or instrument he could hurt himself with. "Nothing much around to kill yourself with in the psychiatric center, is there?" he said in friendly disappointment.

"Nope."

"I'll hold my breath until I die."

"Physically impossible," the nurse dismissed. "You'd pass out and lose concentration and start breathing again."

"Fine," Sherlock huffed. "Whatever."

The nurse glanced down at her wrist watch. "You've only got twenty minutes. Settle down."

" _You_ settle down," Sherlock pouted, padding away on bare feet, tying his robe around his waist indignantly. He actually had no problems with the phone policy or the nurse. He just wanted to engage her and hear her talk. She wasn't friendly or hostile or interesting, just sitting at the end of the hall watching the door, the phone and her coffee mug and her visitor log. But her voice was _fantastic_. He wanted to hand her a dictionary and ask her to recite it.

When Sherlock finally got his phone back at 7:00pm, charged, _thank you_ awesome black nurse, his inbox was clogged with texts. John, Lestrade, Mycroft. Oh, good. Since responding to everyone individually was a daunting task he wouldn't enjoy, he thought, _fuck it_ , and shut off his phone again.

He left the residential area and wandered out into the visitor center for calling hours. There was nobody here to see him. No body knew he was here. He snaked around the tables and found an empty arm chair amongst the other patients and settled down into it. He sighed.

The visitor center was filled with people in various states of dress, various states of crises, meeting family members and friends in various states of shock, denial and relief. Sherlock watched dozens of human dramas play out with a sense of disgust and fascination. It was awful that this all had to happen here, in a large room, no privacy. _Don't judge them,_ Sherlock told himself, _You're here too._

After an hour, he turned the phone back on. He scrolled to John's name and sent a message without reading anything John sent him:

_At East London NHS for suicide watch. Here voluntarily._

A minute later, he added: _I'm safe. Have evaluation in the morning. Will txt 2morrow if I can go home or have to stay here. I won't leave AMA in case Mycroft or someone wants to be an ass._ He sent off the message and settled the phone on his stomach and closed his eyes. Across the room, a girl was crying. Sherlock sighed again.

His phone chimed. Sherlock picked it up.

 _On my way._ It was John.

Sherlock felt his stomach muscles clench. He wasn't sure if he should be happy or not. He typed: _Don't bother. Visiting hours only last another 10 mins. Come by in the morning if you want. 9:00-10:30 you can come after I meet with the dr._

A response came immediately: _On my way. Right now._

Sherlock pursed his lips at John's response. He really wasn't mentally ready to see John face-to-face. He typed: _You'll never get a cab here in 10 mins._

The phone chimed: _I'm running. I'm on foot. I'm on my way. Fuck visiting hours are you KIDDING?_

_  
_

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

 

_To be continued…_


	4. Family

Molly Hooper's ringtone had been a simple digital chime before Jim changed it to Ke$ha.  
  
At the time, it made her laugh. Afterwards it left her feeling empty and depressed. She hadn't bothered to change it back though, mostly because she'd forgotten about it. Due to her slim address book and her sluggish social life, she'd forgotten about the ringtone, thus _Tik Tok_ remained programmed into her phone.  
  
That is, until the phone rang while she and Sherlock in line, grabbing coffee.  
  
Sherlock's expression fell and he glanced about the crowded café in mortal dread. The ring was loud. Couples and friends had stopped talking to each other and were looking towards the pair impatiently. "Good god, Molly, is that your phone?" Sherlock hissed.  
  
"Sorry, sorry," Molly lamented, digging in her purse. "The chime is loud so I can hear it from the office."  
  
"Is that…?" Sherlock began, his upper lip curling.  
  
"Yes," Molly answered sullenly. "Jim…thought it was funny."  
  
Sherlock's mouth twitched. He looked down at his feet uncomfortably.  
  
The duty to tell Molly about Jim from IT had ultimately fallen on John. Sherlock hadn't wanted to do it, Sherlock had been expressly forbidden to do it, though it puzzled Sherlock why John would forbid him from doing something he would never volunteer for in the first place. Since then, he'd never spoken of it to Molly. Sherlock secretly wondered what their dates had been like. He'd been tempted to ask her. For the case. Not for the case. Other reasons.  
  
Sherlock shuddered. He tried to bury the thought back into his reptile brain where he interred all his base, irrational thoughts. As he did, Jim Moriarty's sing-song voice taunted him; _Yeah, you'd watch. Shameless, mindless rutting animals. You're one wank away from being ordinary and pathetic._  
  
Molly continued to dig through her purse, though her rustlings became lethargic as her mind was preoccupied with visions of her fleeting, false relationship with a man who turned out to be a master criminal. She felt dirty. For a moment, she was just silent and still, the phone in her limp hand. She thought, I wonder if they found out at the hospital. I wonder if that's why…  
  
"God," Sherlock snarled, plucking the phone from her hand, jolting her from her stupor. "This is intolerable. Unforgivable." His fingers danced across the keys, silencing the ringer.  
  
"Thanks," Molly mumbled sheepishly, reaching for the phone.  
  
Sherlock twisted away from her, keeping the phone out of her reach.  
  
"Um," Molly mumbled impotently. "My phone…"  
  
Sherlock ignored her. He continued to fiddle. A minute later, he "thumped" the phone back into her chest. "There," he huffed. "You're welcome."  
  
Molly drew back, blinking in surprise at Sherlock. She took the phone quietly. "Ok."  
  
He pushed her aside. "Our turn." He stepped up to the counter and ordered two coffees and paid for them. He did it quickly, leaving no opportunity for objection or for opportunity for Molly to attempt to pay for herself. "Come along, Molly," he said, his nose in the air, drifting away from the counter to find an available booth.  
  
Molly gulped and rushed to follow. People were still looking at her. She tried not to make eye contact with any of the irritated customers and kept herself a close to Sherlock's back as possible without walking into him. To preoccupy herself, she scrolled through her phone to see what Sherlock had done to it. She found a new ring tone had been downloaded. She clicked on the file name just as Sherlock settled into an available booth in the corner.  
  
She blinked. " _Blow_?"  
  
" _Blow_ is infinitely superior," Sherlock declared obstinately, as if issuing a challenge.  
  
A smile crept across Molly's mouth.  
  
Sherlock returned the smile eagerly. He looked positively devilish when he smiled. His _"let's play"_ smile was noticeably more appealing than the _"how can I get what I want out of you?_ " smile she was familiar with. For one, his authentic smile revealed teeth. His eyes squinted a bit, his chin ducking down, like his happiness didn't know what to do with his face.  
  
"How do you feel?" Molly asked pleasantly. "You look better."  
  
Sherlock shrugged off his coat and slipped off his scarf, sipping his coffee. "Ugh. I regret adding milk." He set down the cup, letting his long fingers play on the cardboard heat guard.  
  
Molly sat down and took up her own drink, realizing Sherlock had ordered for her and curious about his selection. To her surprise, it was exactly what she would have ordered for herself. She wondered if that meant she and Sherlock took their coffee the same way…or if he just knew how people liked their coffee fixed. Like he always knew everything.  
  
"I feel better," Sherlock volunteered without being prompted a second time.  
  
Molly warmed her hands around her cup. "Me too."  
  
Sherlock's finger tips played with the heat guard of his cup. "I'm concerned about you," he said finally.  
  
Molly balked. "What. Me?"  
  
"I wish you hadn't thrown away your anti-depressants," Sherlock said. "If they were prescribed to you, you have a valid reason to take them."  
  
Molly sighed. "I didn't have a valid reason, though. I knew I was going to lose my job. I heard the rumors. My boss kept dropping passive-aggressive hints. I was miserable. But I should have known a bunch of pills weren't going to make it better."  
  
Sherlock nodded. "Fair enough." His fingernail dug into the heat guard and he began to peel apart the cardboard. "Still. I'm sorry about what I said. About clutching pills on the bathroom floor and putting on a brave face to come to work. I said it to hurt you." He paused. "I don't know why I would want to hurt you."  
  
Molly's small, awkward mouth twitched. "You…you tried to warn me about Jim. You said that to hurt me, too."  
  
Sherlock could no longer keep eye contact with Molly. Now he looked at his hands, too. He became completely preoccupied with peeling apart the heat guard on his coffee, dropping curling strips of brown paper on the counter. He dropped them one at a time, like daisy petals.  
  
"Yes," Sherlock finally admitted. Then he frowned. "No." He looked up almost defiantly. "No, I didn't do it to hurt you. I didn't." He shook his head. "I mean, I knew it would hurt you. But I didn't do it _to_ hurt you. That wasn't why. He was dishonest. He thought he could fool me. I didn't like that. I didn't like him." He focused narrowed on his coffee cup. "Of course. He _did_ fool me." He pursed his lips. "I wasn't trying to go out of my way to hurt just you. I wanted to humiliate him."  
  
Molly cocked her head curiously. "Why?"  
  
Sherlock said sullenly, focused on his cup, "This might come as a surprise to you, but I don't think much of homosexuals."  
  
"But…." Molly frowned. "But you're…"  
  
Sherlock's mouth twitched. He nodded stiffly. "I'm…the worst kind of closeted gay man. The kind who bullies his own. The kind that projects his self-hate. That's why I felt the need to call him out. His behavior and mannerisms repulsed me. I looked at him and I felt sorry for him, so obvious and pathetic. I thought…that could be me. It gave me chills." He dropped another strip of paper on the table. Another. He loves me. He loves me not. His face was growing more tense as he spoke. "I get so sick sometimes thinking that strangers might be able to tell just by looking at me or hearing me talk." Finally, he glanced up at Molly. It was a half-glance, looking up under his bangs, his eyes hidden as if in shame. "If I hadn't been so reflexive, I might have deduced something relevant. Like….I dunno. Jim Moriarty was a master criminal. But, no. I only got as far as 'gay.'" Sherlock sighed. "Oh well. Lesson learned."  
  
Molly's face was infinitely sad.  
  
He steepled his hands and pressed his lips to his own fingers. "I wonder if that's how John feels when he looks at me, the same way I felt when I first saw Jim. I wonder if I make him sick. I wonder if I embarrass him." Sherlock was quiet a moment. Reflecting. Then his lips trembled. He dropped his hands back down on the table, seizing his coffee cup and resuming dissecting what he could without totally unraveling the cup.  
  
Molly saw Sherlock's eyes losing focus and spoke softly and quickly, trying to shift focus, "Well. As far as Jim Moriarty goes, posing as gay or straight is the least of our worries, right?"  
  
Sherlock was silent.  
  
Molly didn't like his silence. "Sherlock?"  
  
Sherlock's lips moved, mouthing words, but no audible sound came out.  
  
"What?" Molly asked. "I didn't hear you."  
  
"I…I flirted with John, Molly."  
  
Molly blinked.  
  
Sherlock's looked sick. "I thought I could be subtle, but I couldn't have been more obvious."  
  
Molly tried to think of something to say, but she couldn't think of anything.  
  
Sherlock said, "I don't know what I what doing. What I was thinking. I didn't expect him to respond. I didn't even expect him to notice." His eyes flickered towards Molly. Searching and hungry and needy. "I just felt safe and it was nice to be affectionate and be able to be like that and John promised, he promised to understand, and I just thought….this will be nice. I can have this and John won't mind. But he did. It wasn't welcome. I made him uncomfortable, crossing that line." He sank into himself.  
  
"What did you do?" Molly asked seriously.  
  
Sherlock cradled his face in his hands, ignoring her question. "He's going to move out. We won't be friends anymore. Oh, he'll be polite when he run into each other. If we run into each other. That's what's expected, of course. But inside he'll cringe when he sees me. He'll tighten up inside. There goes Sherlock Holmes, that creepy…." He couldn't finish. He looked broken. "I just touched him."  
  
Molly gave Sherlock a dubious look.  
  
"No where obvious," Sherlock defended. "Just his arm. But…I…I caressed him. I did it a hundred times before. He never cared before I told him I was gay."  
  
They were both silent for a few moments. The world churned around them. The café bustled with customers coming and going.  
  
Sherlock asked, "Will you pity-fuck me?"  
  
Molly slowly looked up, eyes wide.  
  
Sherlock explained numbly, "I don't want to be gay anymore. I'll be your boyfriend if you want, just tell everyone I'm straight. Tell John." He smoothed his hands down his front to fix his wrinkled shirt, in an attempt to make himself look more presentable, as if he were in an interview, as if that's how sex worked.  
  
Molly said nothing. It wasn't necessary to say anything. She knew Sherlock could hear himself, hear how irrational he sounded. Maybe he just needed to get it out.  
  
"I can become more self-aware," Sherlock rambled. "I can restrain my behavior further, retrain my mind. Instead of rejecting my sexuality outright, I can re-direct it." His voice was resolute.  
  
Molly was disgusted, horrified. She recoiled. "You can't psych yourself straight," she said.  
  
"Yes I can." Sherlock looked at nothing.  
  
"No you can't. You can't."  
  
"I can do anything with my mind. If I have to be ordinary, if sex truly is a undeniable instinct that I can't suppress, then let me join the ranks of the acceptable, the dull. I'll retire in obscurity, blanketed in the security of meaningless relationship structures and wait to be embraced. Desperate for acceptance, I'll become dependent on the opinions of others. Unable to think. Just like everyone else." He exhaled. "Do you think John will forgive me then?"  
  
Molly frowned. "That's the most horrible thing I've ever heard. Why would you want to change who you are?"  
  
Sherlock sat up. "Don't think that because I'm concerned about John that I can't be a good boyfriend. I can take care of you. You won't need to work. I have a trust fund." His eyes lit up. "Hey, you want a job? John's homophobia has made him inadequate as an assistant. I can't speak to him without fear he will do me physical harm. He has no desire to share my company any longer and as he's positioning yourself to advance his relationship with his girlfriend, I'm sure he'll move out any day. My flat has two bedrooms, so you can either keep one for yourself for privacy or you can..."  
  
"Be quiet," Molly said curtly.  
  
"Okay," Sherlock said, obediently silencing himself.  
  
Molly drank her coffee in sobering meditation. She decided that having the power to mute Sherlock Holmes on command was, indeed, a great and terrible power that she needed to harness immediately and master. People would gasp and clap.  
  
Molly said, "Pretending to be straight isn't going to make you feel better. Pretending can't make you straight."  
  
"I…"  
  
"No talking."  
  
Sherlock shut up.  
  
"You want to do something for me?" Molly said, "I want you to see a therapist."  
  
Sherlock's whole face scrunched up.  
  
Molly continued, "I can be your friend if you want. I can listen and I can share my thoughts with you. We can even do things together, go places. I'm sure we have something in common we could enjoy. But just an hour ago, you were planning to kill yourself. I've watched your emotions go up and down all afternoon. Just a minute ago, you were laughing and smiling and teasing me. Then you were sad again. Now you want….God. I want to help you and I don't know how. I'm not gay and I can't give you any advice. But I hope you don't go back to hiding who you are. Coming out was very brave thing to do and you shouldn't give up. I think an honest-to-God counseling session might do you some good…"  
  
Sherlock raised his hand.  
  
Molly cocked her head. "What are you doing?"  
  
"Waiting to be called on." He was completely serious.  
  
"Oh."  
  
Sherlock waited.  
  
Molly pointed at him. "Sherlock."  
  
Sherlock put down his hand. "I didn't 'come out' by choice. John outed me."  
  
"Did you really just raise your hand and wait to be called on like you were in a class room?"  
  
"I wasn't sure how to proceed," Sherlock said. "Anyway, I came out to John in confidence. He outed me in the middle of a crime scene in front of the entire homicide team. It was _not_ empowering. It was the most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to me."  
  
"Then take it back. Come out. On your terms."  
  
Sherlock looked miserable. "I don't have _terms_. I want my privacy. I want my dignity."  
  
"You could come out on your blog," Molly suggested.  
  
Sherlock flinched. "God! No! I don't want anyone to know. I just wanted to tell John. I was satisfied just to have him know and have him accept me and have him keep my secret."  
  
Molly insisted. " _I_ know. _I_ think it's great."  
  
Sherlock leaned forward aggressively. "Why? _Why_ is it great?"  
  
"I don't know. I just think it is."  
  
"Well, _I_ don't think it's great," Sherlock mocked. "I don't think anything about it. I don't jump up and down for joy knowing that you are heterosexual. I am not sitting here at this table mentally celebrating that you enjoy penis. I'm not."  
  
Molly flushed.  
  
"Did that make you uncomfortable?" Sherlock demanded. "It's a very personal and graphic image to suddenly be thrust into the forefront of your thoughts. Now. Try to imagine that from a different perspective. I'm a gay man. So _I_ like penis, too." He shrugged. "Just give me a round of applause. You think that's the first thought I want strangers to have of me? I don't see how telling complete strangers, or even people I know, that I'm attracted to men…or even that…I fantasize about…about…certain types of sex acts…that…I don't see how that makes a me a better person." He scowled in disgust. "Its not fair. Its _not._ There are so many obscene ways for men and women to have sex with each other and nobody judges them. The way people conduct themselves is just absolutely sickening, but it's all okay. It's okay to _cheapen_ yourself and expose your body and destroy marriages and have flings and casual hook-ups and go to sex clubs and _rent_ people and use their bodies and it's all okay, it's fine, it's _fine_. When you shake hands with strangers, naturally they assume you're straight and they move on with their day. They don't pause and consider all the possible ways you might like to fuck. But if someone suspects you're gay, they suddenly fixate on what that implies. Start imagining you in sexual scenarios and…I just…no. _No._ And. _And!_ " Sherlock was growing angrier and angrier as he went on. "I'm celibate. I don't even _do_ any of those things. I have no desire to have a boyfriend. I have no desire to participate in those…certain sex acts…even if I do find them appealing in some abstract way. I can't control my sexual orientation, but I can certainly control my behavior and I am not just some mindless, pleasure-craving junkie and I'm not coming out. I'm not coming out." Sherlock scowled. "Why are you laughing!?"  
  
"You had me at 'I like penis'.'" Molly dissolved in a fit of giggles. Her head sank into the table.  
  
Sherlock stared at the helplessly laughing Molly Hooper, his anger raging. "You have seriously been sitting there, fucking laughing. Since 'penis.' Are you five?"  
  
Molly nodded, unable to breathe.  
  
Sherlock was furious. "You're an idiot."  
  
Molly couldn't be stopped. Her face was red. She was sliding off her seat.  
  
Sherlock shook his head. "A complete and total fucking idiot."  
  
Molly disappeared under the table. Her gasping laugher was the only evidence of her presence.  
  
Sherlock sat back and sipped his coffee, smug, bitter. "It must be fun to be an idiot. How nice. Just carry on. On the floor. With the candy wrappers and the dirt from people's shoes. Just stay there. Laughing. In public. Because you're stupid." He paused. "People are looking, you know."  
  
Molly tried to respond. But only a blubbering sound came out, not English, and she must have found that hysterical because she lost control again. She laughed louder.  
  
Sherlock drummed his fingers impatiently. Then he laid sideways in the booth and glared at Molly. "Hey. Look at me."  
  
Molly was wiping tears from her eyes. She tried to compose herself, but her face was still sloppy-silly from laughing hard and intermittent giggles erupted quietly every few seconds. "Hmm?"  
  
Sherlock said seriously, "How is it? Under the table."  
  
"Pretty great."  
  
"People are judging you."  
  
"Let them," Molly said breathlessly. "They wish they were as happy as me right now."  
  
Sherlock lay on his side for a while. He curled his arm under his head and tucked his knees in. "When I was a little boy, I didn't know how to make friends. It seemed to come very naturally to other little boys. My brother Mycroft had amassed a large circles of friends and their days were filled with adventures while I played by myself. I didn't mind playing by myself, but I thought I was hopelessly outcast, untouchable. It was very unfair. So I asked my mother for her advice. She told me, 'If you want to make friends with someone, walk up to them and say: I'm Sherlock. Let's be friends. Well. I thought that was shockingly direct. It was obscene. It was in violation of some natural law. But, lacking an alternative, and also being six and very trusting, I gave it a try."  
  
Molly smiled and asked, "Did it work?"  
  
Sherlock nodded. "On the boy across the street. I was so excited I might as well have been in love. I played every day with him all summer. Eventually, we grew apart. Well, I grew into a little snot and I pissed him off and he wouldn't play with me anymore, but that's not the point of the story. The point is. Mother was right. And that's what this feels like. I feel like…you know."  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"I'm Sherlock." He paused. "Can I play in your fort?"

  
  
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

  
  
When the coffee was finished and the clerks chased them out for "disruptive behavior," Sherlock and Molly laughed madly on the sidewalk, walking away. It had been an exhilarating day for them both.  
  
Later, prepared to part ways, Sherlock's face fell again. No longer distracted by new friendship, his mind was wandering back to dark thoughts. Molly took Sherlock's hand in hers and asked him to reconsider seeing a doctor. But Sherlock faked a smile and promised not to hurt himself.  
  
Standing on the steps to her building, Molly looked sadly at Sherlock. She knew the difference between his "let's play" smile and that other smile. "Come up to my flat," Molly asked, taking his hand and tugging gently. "I only have a Mr. Coffee and a couch, but you're welcome to both."  
  
"I'm going home to see John," Sherlock lied.  
  
Molly released Sherlock's hand reluctantly. "Ok, then. Call me tomorrow?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
She went into her apartment building and Sherlock watched her go. He turned around and started the long walk home. It was dusk and London began to glow.  
  
Sherlock walked a long time. His feet grew heavier and heavier.  
  
What a nice day it had been.  
  
Let it be the last one.  
  
He knew a bridge.  
  
On his way, he changed his mind several times. His mood swung wildly. He made plans to see Molly first thing in the morning and laugh like he had today, no regrets. He knew a shop that ground excellent exotic coffees and he could bring her a batch and they could enjoy it together.  
  
No. End it tonight.  
  
No. Find John. Be brave. Talk it out, one more time, even if nothing comes of it, just try.  
  
No. He never wanted to see John again. No.  
  
Find Lestrade instead. Find a case. A good, life-affirming murder to stir his thrill for living. Be functional. Be rational. Put all these ugly thoughts in the past and carry on. Invite Molly. Learn to smile for real.  
  
No. The bridge.  
  
No. Find a CCTV camera and stand there until Mycroft found him. Forgive Mycroft for rejecting him. Forgive Mycroft for being gay, too. Start his life over. Tell mother. Tell father. Get therapy.  
  
No. No. No.  
  
 _Go to the hospital before you do something stupid_ , a little voice inside Sherlock's mind urged.  
  
"Oh," Sherlock answered out loud to his brain. "Yes. Yes. That's the thing to do."  
  
 _Go do what Molly told you. Go see a therapist._  
  
"Yesss," Sherlock purred.  
  
He was climbing the steps to hospital before he even realized he'd arrived. He went to the emergency room and patiently explained his suicidal thoughts to a stunned nurse. In moments, he was ushered away, stripped of his coat and his belongings, including his pocket knife. He didn't resist the anxious hands that pushed him. He answered all the questions that were asked of him calmly. He felt safe and secure.

  
  
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

  
  
Molly's apartment was small, cluttered, and retained a faint cat-smell, much like the rest of her life. Toby the tabby was curled in her lap as she sat in front of her desktop, scrolling through help wanted ads online, updating her resume when her phone began to jingle.  
  
 _Go insane, go insane, throw some glitta, make it rain on 'em…_  
  
She jerked up and reached for her purse on the floor to find the phone. This distressed Toby, who leapt off her lap with an indignant, raspy mew.  
  
Finding the mobile in her purse, she flipped it open. "Molly Hooper," she said pleasantly and anxiously, hoping for an interview.  
  
"Why don't you have texting enabled on your phone?!" Sherlock demanded irately. "My messages keep getting sent back to me! What are you? Some kind of anti-technology, knuckle-dragging luddite...?"  
  
Molly smiled. Better than an interview. She leaned back in her chair, bringing her feet onto the lip of the chair and tucking her knees under her chin. "I _did_ get your text. I'm glad you went to the hospital. How is it…?"  
  
"Sod off," Sherlock snarled on the phone. "I stupidly texted John to let him know where I am. Now he's on his way here to see me. I don't want to see him. I don't want to see him. I tried to dissuade him from coming, but he's insistent. How can I convince him not to come?"  
  
Molly pursed her lips. "I think you should talk to him."  
  
"No."  
  
Molly dramatically lifted her hand, as if summoning the spirits, even though Sherlock couldn't see. "Let him come, Sherlock."  
  
"Nononono!" On the other end of the phone, there were sounds of dull crashing, like Sherlock was throwing himself back and forth. "I don't want to see him!"  
  
Molly sighed. "If you're really that opposed to it, you can always check yourself out. You checked in voluntarily, they can't stop you."  
  
More crashing on the other end of the phone. "Molly! You're not helping!" Sherlock howled. "I am progressively regretting becoming involved with you. YOU ARE RUINING MY LIFE."  
  
Molly rocked back and forth in her chair blithely. "I'm not doing anything. Just sitting here."  
  
"RUINING. MY. LIFE," Sherlock shouted in the most despondent way.  
  
"Are you medicated?" Molly inquired.  
  
Suddenly, he was calm, conversational. "Soon, probably. The nurse doesn't like my temper tantrum. She's shaking her head at me. She's motioning for other nurses. Oh great. That's five damn nurses."  
  
"What?" Molly asked.  
  
Sherlock said, "I think I have to go. I think the orderlies are going to sedate me."

  
  
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

  
  
"Sir?"  
  
Sherlock snapped his phone shut and grinned innocently. Sitting sideways on the arm chair with his back braced against one arm and his legs draped over the other arm, bare feet in the air, Sherlock turned to face the gathering nurses, smiling, hands steepled ingenuously. "Sorry," he apologized. "Was I being a bother? Promise not to do it again. Oh? Or are visiting hours done for the night?" He offered up his phone, waggling it . "I imagine you'll be wanting this back."  
  
There were several nurses now, males and females. The head nurse stepped forward, short cropped hair. "You have a visitor, sir."  
  
Oh, good. Well, at least they weren't going to wrestle him to the ground. Sighing, Sherlock turned himself right in the chair and stood up. He closed his bathrobe dramatically and scooped up his slippers. "God. Why? Why?" He handed his phone to the nurse. "Couldn't you have sent him away? Visiting hours are over. What about my treatment?"  
  
"He had special privileges sir. This way." She took the phone.  
  
Sherlock followed the nurses glumly. "Where we going?" He noticed the crowd had not yet dispersed.  
"Why the parade?"  
  
"Private room. His request."  
  
"Really? Just because he's Doctor John Watson, he can command the staff?" he groaned. "I suppose being a doctor and all, he can go anywhere he likes in a hospital and do whatever he likes. Fine. Fine. Lead the way."  
  
Sherlock was lead down the hall, past Awesome Black Nurse's station. As she buzzed the door open, she muttered in disinterest: "Fiduciary."  
  
Sherlock beamed. He'd asked her to say it earlier, just to hear how she would pronounce it, and she'd ignored him. "Thank you. That was lovely."  
  
"Bye-bye," she said, waving. She went back to filing her nails.  
  
Sherlock waved merrily back as he was ushered out the door. The nurses led him through the corridor. They turned a corner, out of the behavioral science unit and into the general hospital. This hallway was dim. Only the emergency lights illuminated the floor. Sherlock frowned. "What is this?" he asked. "What, are you taking me away to be murdered?"  
  
"The gentleman asked for privacy," the nurse answered in a tone that suggested the conversation was over.  
  
Sherlock faltered, doubting. "Wait." He stopped. "We're going to see John Watson, right?"  
  
One of the male nurses took Sherlock by the upper arm and pulled him forward.  
  
"Wait." Sherlock tried to jerk his arm back. "I don't want to go. What is this?"  
  
The male nurse grabbed Sherlock firmly again and before Sherlock could respond, two other nurses came from behind and grabbed his other arm, one under the armpit and one by the wrist. "Stop!" Sherlock shouted, his knees giving, making the nurses drag him. He kicked furiously. "No! I don't want to see him! He isn't welcome, you understand? Get off me!"  
  
"Walk on your own or we'll have to restrain you."  
  
Reluctantly, Sherlock gathered his feet under his body. "Don't you dare put me in a straight jacket. He would love that. Fucking love it. Prick. Miserable prick. I hate him."  
  
They stopped in front of an examination room. A nurse stepped forward and unlocked the door, pushing it open and stepping aside. "In you go. He's waiting."  
  
Sherlock shook his arms free and the male nurses let him go. Indignantly, he smoothed his hands over his robe, reached up to touch his hairline. Composed, he marched forward into the darkened room, leaving the nurses outside.  
  
Inside was an empty room, stainless steel counters, a sink, cabinets, a table in the middle of the room, a partially drawn curtain. Again, the lights were off. Just the emergency lights glowing softly.  
  
"Close the door," Mycroft instructed tensely. He was in the opposite corner of the room, leaning up against the wall.  
  
Smiling bitterly, Sherlock slammed the door behind him. " _Dear_ brother. How nice to see you." He walked about the room absently, jauntily. "Go head. Gloat." He spun around once to show off his hospital frock, his robe. "I'm in a mental hospital."  
  
Without a word, Mycroft stood up straight. He stepped forward, revealing Sherlock's laptop in his arm. He set it on the table.  
  
Sherlock stared at it uncomprehendingly.  
  
Mycroft opened up the screen and waiting for it to flicker to life. "I didn't even know there was a problem until John contacted me yesterday. He told me you were missing. I had no idea."  
  
"Odd. You know everything." Sherlock folded his arms. "You even snoop through my text messages."  
  
"I followed you on the cameras," Mycroft said defensively, insulted at Sherlock's presumption. "You weren't behaving in a manner that would raise my alarm. It's not unlike you to traverse all over London, not outrageous for you to sleep in a bus station. For all I knew, you were investigating a case. I told John he was overreacting, that sometimes you wonder off and you just aren't thoughtful enough to keep friends informed of your whereabouts." Mycroft switched the laptop off stand-by. "Then he broke down. Told me everything that happened. Told me he found this." He turned the laptop around to show Sherlock. "You recognize this document?"  
  
Sherlock's heart sank. He'd buried it, or so he'd thought. Of course John would find it.  
  
"All the feelings laid out bare," Mycroft said. "Each paragraph documenting your escalating terror, culminating in panicked denials. I've read each troubling passage, every one growing darker and darker than the one before it. When I came upon the sentence, 'I want to die,' I couldn't read anymore." He looked up, his eyes unusually bright in the glow of the laptop. "Shall I read it to you?"  
  
Sherlock's cheek twitched angrily. "That wasn't meant for you. That was meant for John."  
  
"I know. He read it, too. He made it all the way to the end, to your suicide note."  
  
Sherlock set his jaw. He hadn't printed the suicide note for a reason.  
  
Mycroft sighed. "He gave it to me. He gave it to the police when he turned himself in for battery and assault. Attacks where the victim is targeted specifically because of their sexual orientation fall under the hate crimes category. As such, I can insure a lengthy jail sentence, if you want."  
  
Sherlock balked. "John's going to be charged with a hate crime?"  
  
"He's at peace with it," Mycroft said simply. "He asked me to deliver his apology."  
  
"I don't want John to go to _jail_. That's ridiculous."  
  
"I didn't think you would," Mycroft said. "Which is why he was released on his own recognizance pending a hearing. However, I wasn't going to allow him to come here. No. He's in a car outside. I had my people pick him up when we read your text messages." Mycroft's tone changed. "Brother. Did he _hurt_ you?"  
  
Sherlock's stomach muscles clenched.  
  
Mycroft walked forward slowly. "What happened?"  
  
"Nothing happened. _I tripped_. I fell down some stairs."  
  
"Sherlock," Mycroft said. "I thought you were dead. I couldn't find you all day. I pulled every agent under my authority to search the city, comb your phone records, watch your bank account for any activity. I broke down the door of every dealer I know you've been to. I even went to mother's, hoping you might have gone home."  
  
Sherlock backed up against the wall, feeling his chest tighten.  
  
Mycroft advanced on Sherlock until they were very close. Mycroft said, "I had this vision in my head of finding you in an alley. Overdosed. Bled out. Cold." He reached up and ran his fingers through Sherlock's messy curls. It was a gesture he hadn't made since their father died. Sherlock didn't resist. "You went to a goddamn hospital. You didn't even use a fake name. I can't believe you did something so _responsible_." He pulled the limp Sherlock into his arms. "I never thought to look for you here."  
  
Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut. In a moment, he felt his weight being supported. Mycroft was holding him. He felt so strange. "I wasn't hiding. Your agents are all garbage," Sherlock muttered.  
  
Mycroft chuckled into Sherlock's hair.  
  
Tentatively, Sherlock's arms lifted around Mycroft's waist. He gave an experimental squeeze and was rewarded with a squeeze back. "What did you tell mother?" Sherlock asked.  
  
"That I was worried about you. That's all." He stroked Sherlock's back. "She's used to that. She'd like you to call sometime."  
  
Sherlock melted. He didn't want to. He wanted to fight all these feelings washing over his body, he wanted to fight the contented sighs threatening to escape his mouth. He wanted to pull away and shove Mycroft back and curse him and hate him and vow to never forgive him. But this was nice. And it didn't mean he forgave his stupid brother. It just meant that this was nice. And it was. But…  
  
"No," Sherlock said, trying to pull away. "No. No. I don't forgive you."  
  
"You don't have to forgive me," Mycroft said, releasing his brother. "You just have to be okay. And I see you are well on your way."  
  
Sherlock looked at his laptop. "I didn't want anyone reading that. I wasn't done writing. It's unfinished. Raw. I didn't have my thoughts in order."  
  
Mycroft took the laptop from the table and handed it to Sherlock. "Take it. You have all the time you need and no distractions while you are here. That is, if you want to stay here."  
  
Sherlock took the laptop and rested it against his chest. "Yes. I want to stay."  
  
"I can transfer you to a different hospital if you want more privacy."  
  
"No, this is fine."  
  
Mycroft nodded. "What do you want me to do with John?" he asked.  
  
Sherlock said gently, "Please don't let the hearing go on. Even if John is found innocent, his reputation will be ruined forever. If people in the medical community think he's violent towards gays, it could cut off opportunities for him, close him off from some circles. He isn't like that, Mycroft. John is the sweetest person I know. We just had a spat."  
  
"John was very explicit about his motivations," Mycroft countered.  
  
"John doesn't know what he's talking about," Sherlock defended. "He isn't homophobic. He was just distressed that I… made an unwelcome sexual advance."  
  
Mycroft raised his eye brow. "He didn't tell me that."  
  
Sherlock said, "He was probably embarrassed."  
  
Mycroft said, "Or it didn't happen."  
  
"It did."  
  
Mycroft smirked.  
  
Sherlock said, "What?"  
  
"Did you really put the moves on poor John Watson?"  
  
Sherlock shuddered. "Mycroft. _Jesus_."  
  
"I didn't think you had it in you, Sherlock."  
  
"It's not funny," Sherlock said seriously.  
  
"You know what?" Mycroft offered, moving slowly to the door. "I think it is funny. I think this whole situation could do with some laughter." When he put his hand on the handle, he looked at Sherlock. "He desperately wants to see you, Sherlock. What should I tell him?"  
  
Sherlock hugged his laptop. "Is John okay?"  
  
"He thought he drove you to kill yourself," Mycroft answered.  
  
"Is John _okay_?"  
  
"He could probably use a drink and a good night's sleep."  
  
Sherlock nodded. "Well. Make sure he gets both. And tell him I'll see him in the morning."

  
  
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

  
  
To be continued….


	5. Forgiveness

Despite Mycroft's reputation for abstaining from field work, he was an expert interrogator. He was Sherlock's equal in observation, but _extracting_ was where Mycroft really excelled. He wasn't content in waiting for clues to reveal themselves when he could __gut__ details from the unwilling.

John never had a chance.

In under a half hour, Mycroft knew __everything_ _ John knew. But that wasn't enough. He wanted to know __more__ , more than what John's limited senses could reveal.

"Show me."

And John did.

He showed Mycroft the laptop, the documents. He read them in silence. Pages and pages and pages, chronicling the deterioration of a once-great mind. But they were just wandering, listless thoughts. There were no plans, no clues and nothing to go on. "Not enough. What else?"

Obediently, John took Mycroft to 221b. As they climbed the stairs to the flat, Mycroft stopped at the landing that led up to John's bedroom and stared for a long time at the steps. He was eerily fixated on something.

John stared. He had no clear memory of shoving Sherlock down the stairs. He didn't need to. Sherlock had lovingly detailed the account in his notes.

Mycroft studied the stairs, silent and judging, as if he could see the whole sad scene play out from the scoff marks on the steps and the fingernail scratches in the lacquered railing.

"Right." John cleared his throat and unlocked the door and gestured Mycroft in. Right in front of them, in the middle of the living room floor, was the broken violin. John had left it, and the rest of the flat, undisturbed. "So," he began tensely, gesturing to the violin. "This is the first thing I found." John paused, feeling stupid. "Um. Obviously."

"Your input isn't necessary, thank you." Mycroft moved with purpose, eyes darting about. He hesitated only for a moment before zeroing in on the bathroom, then he moved towards it, John following closely behind. Mycroft went inside, flicking on the light switch. John was silent as Mycroft worked. He stood at attention, hands clasped behind his back, awaiting orders. So long as he was in solider-mode, he couldn't become overwhelmed by either the elder Holmes or his own warring feelings.

Mycroft stood in front of the mirror, pressing his finger against his lip. " _Faggot_ ," he read, saying the word slowly like he'd never heard it before. He was quiet for a long time. He stepped closer, leaning over the sink basin and studying the shimmery pink lipstick. " _Clinique_ ," Mycroft concluded with confidence. " _Bamboo Pink_ in a sheer butter cream. _Lovely_ shade. He didn't pick it, Sherlock has no taste. Someone with experience helped him select it, found a color to compliment his complexion."

John didn't respond in any way.

He felt the lipstick in his own front left pocket. He'd taken it when he found it, not sure why. Indeed, it was called _Bamboo Pink_. He didn't feel the need to tell Mycroft he was right.

Mycroft leaned back. "You can't get that brand at a drug store. He went to a cosmetic counter in a department store and asked for help." He considered it a moment. "Very bold for a man who's been a closeted homosexual his whole life. A beautician took the time to sit him down and tried different colors on him. He sat there. He let himself be tarted up."

John's nose wrinkled at that, but he continued to say nothing.

"It was probably humiliating for him," Mycroft contemplated. "But he took the advice, purchased what was recommended for him and came home." Mycroft lifted his hand and dragged his index finger across the word. It did not smear. "At least a week ago. Maybe longer." He casually rubbed his forefinger and thumb together. "He wanted to be pretty when he died."

John's stomach dropped down to his knees.

Mycroft said, "He woke up every day, walked into this room and was greeted by this message. He brushed his teeth and showered and shaved and this word was always with him." He cocked his head. "He fantasized about suicide. This was the first step towards actualization."

John just nodded.

Mycroft looked at John. "You told me you were only gone for a few days. But you left out come crucial information: you were only here for a brief time, maybe a half hour at most, to gather more of your belongings and return to your girlfriend's flat. If you had spent the night or spent any meaningful measure of time, you would have used the toilet at some point and seen this message."

John's jaw flexed.

Mycroft said, "You've been slowing moving out, one overnight bag at a time."

John said, resolve buckling, "Look, we had a falling out. I told you that. We weren't speaking to each other. I wasn't hanging around. I just came a few times for my things, that's all, and I'd go. I haven't spent a night here in at least a month."

Mycroft said, "No need to defend yourself John. I'm not interested."

John's anger flared. "I'm not going to let you make this _my_ fault. I had every right to walk away from this relationship. Sherlock was a prat. He was rude to my girlfriend, he tried to sabotage our dates, he was always…"

Without warning, Mycroft turned suddenly and grabbed John by the throat with one hand. He _picked John up_ , squeezing his windpipe shut for a moment and set him down in front of the sink, so that John was nearly nose-to-nose with **FAGGOT**.

Then Mycroft let go of John without harming him. He gently smoothed his hand down the side of John's neck, over John's shoulder where his jumper had rumpled, almost affectionately. He cleared his throat and smiled, almost as if to say, _Oh, was that me just now that nearly broke your neck? Ha-ha, please excuse me._

John was frozen, Mycroft's red hand imprint pulsing against his skin.

"Again," Mycroft suggested pleasantly, his boiling anger neatly tucked away again, "I'm not interested." He gave John's shoulder, the shoulder where he'd been shot, a firm and brotherly _squeeze._ John yelped at the unwanted touch.

Mycroft walked away from John and wandered into the living room and stood still, observing, consuming, absorbing. Sherlock's broken violin remained untouched on the floor.

Timidly, John followed.

Mycroft stood directly in front of the violin, eyes closed. His arms were straight at his sides, his hands relaxed. He breathed deeply and evenly, sinking into some spell. "He was going to do it _here_ ," Mycroft told John. Without opening his eyes, Mycroft pointed at the desk. "John. The gun. Is it still there?"

"Yes, I'll get it." He went to the desk. The drawer opened easily, unlocked. John sighed. Yes, Sherlock had picked the lock, an easy feat. But the gun was still inside. "He…he picked the lock," John said, "but he….put the gun _back_."

"Bring it to me," Mycroft beckoned in a trance-like voice, holding his hand out expectantly.

John took the gun in hand. He balked, realizing the safety was off. He began to put it back.

"Don't fiddle with it!" Mycroft barked, eyes still shut. "Don't change anything! Just bring it to me as it is."

"The safety is off…," John cautioned, handing the gun gingerly to Mycroft.

Myrcroft's hand curled around the grip. He felt it's weigh, just holding it. Slowly, his eyes opened and he looked down to examine it. "Thank you, John," he said calmly, turning the gun over carefully. He meditated on it for a while.

John waited anxiously.

"He held it in his mouth for a long time," Mycroft observed. "You see the lipstick on the barrel?"

John flinched. He craned his neck to look. He _did_ see it. "Yes."

Mycroft pointed the gun at himself and studied the barrel, making John's breath catch in his throat. He directed it away again. "Three distinct rings of lipstick. At least three attempts on three different days. If it were all at once, he would have smeared and rubbed off the rings while they were fresh and moist. Each unique imprint had time to dry." He exhaled, letting tension escape. "He was absolutely on edge for at least those three days."

John absorbed it. He tried to remember his last venture to Baker Street. He'd just gone straight up to his room, didn't even greet Sherlock who'd been sitting quietly at the kitchen table in front of his chemistry set. He'd just assumed Sherlock was deep into a case. If Sherlock wanted him for something, he would have shouted to him. But Sherlock just ignored John like he always did. John ignored Sherlock in return. But now John thought about how Sherlock hadn't even turned around to look at him, how he had just sat quietly without saying or doing anything. John wondered how long he'd been sitting there and if he'd actually been _doing_ _anything_.

"Cocksucker."

John recoiled. "What?"

Mycroft handed the gun to John. "I said, 'Cocksucker.'"

John quickly took the gun and put the safety on. " _Why_?"

Mycroft said; "He didn't want to be gay, John." He pointed at the gun in John's hand. "That is him telling you that he hated himself, that he was going to punish himself, purge what he thought was a devious, repulsive __defect_ _ in himself, something he felt took away from his brilliance."

John balked. "No. No." He shook his head, hearing himself chuckle for some reason. "No. That's…he wasn't like that."

Mycroft said, "He wanted to be __pure__. He wanted to conquer his own sexuality, deny it. Subdue it. He couldn't. He felt betrayed by his own body. So he painted his face like a _whore_ and tried to shoot himself." He paused. "He wanted _you_ to find him _here_ , on the floor, his brains on the carpet and _this_. _This gun_ with a perfect little pink circle around the barrel, so that __you__ would know, so that _everyone_ would know…," Mycroft breathed deep, "…that Sherlock Holmes was a cock-sucking faggot who had to die because sex ruined his genius."

John's mouth hung open.

Mycroft ignored John. He closed his coat and buttoned it. "There's nothing else to be gleaned from this crime scene. Thank you, John. This has been most informative." He took a step forward.

John angrily jutted into Mycroft's path. "No! Wait!"

Mycroft said evenly, "Step aside."

" _He wasn't like that_ ," John snarled. "He fucking _loved_ himself. He thought he was brilliant. He thought he was special. All he ever did was try and prove how superior he was. He risked his life…and _my life_ …and the _lives of strangers_ ….just to prove it!"

"Absolutely," Mycroft confirmed.

John was exasperated. "So…so what is this? Why did he…. _why? Why?_ "

"You just said it," Mycroft said, buttoning his coat. "You hit the nail on the head. You _see_ but you don't _observe_." He tugged on his gloves. "Sherlock Holmes spent every waking moment of his life trying to prove he was clever. If he didn't care what people thought of him, why bother?" He folded his hands in front of him. "He could have been like me if he wanted. I offered it to him several times. I thought he'd take to it. Live in secrecy. Put that brilliant mind to use by serving the greater good, tackling the world's problems, problems too complicated for politicians and public officials and generals and hit squads and secret agents. Games of the highest stakes. Tactical problems and moral problems with shades so gray that only the most pitiless mastermind could find solutions for them." He smiled. "But that's not Sherlock Holmes. He wanted to be loved. Desperately."

John shrank back.

Mycroft said, "He's no good at it, though. That wasn't his upbringing, or mine. I suppose he thinks all he has to do is prove he's got an indispensible talent, and the masses of the world will have to embrace him eventually and accept him as one of their own…even if only out of necessity." Mycroft started walking towards the door.

John quickly tucked his gun into his jeans and smoothed his jacket over it. "But…what does being gay have to do with anything?"

"You tell me." Mycroft stepped out of the flat and began down the stairs. "Despite Sherlock's poor social skills, the two of you got along just fine before he told you he was gay."

John stood stiffly at the top of the stairs, watching Mycroft descend. "We didn't stop being friends because he's gay!" he shouted.

Mycroft paused, looking back at John with a raised eyebrow.

"That's not the reason!" John shouted.

Mycroft sneered. "Of course not."

"It's not!"

"No, I believe you," Mycroft assured John.

John leaned against the railing. "He was just….he was just so…." He was lost for an explination.

"Good day, John," Mycroft said, turning the landing and disappearing down the steps. "I'll be sending someone your way to look after you until the manhunt for Sherlock is complete. Please behave yourself or your situation will only grow more complicated."

 

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Mycroft didn't need to have John arrested. Mycroft had his own agents, his own methods. No. He did it to humiliate John. He did it to parade John in front of Lestrade's homicide team, in front of all of Scotland Yard, as a punishment and a warning: Here goes John Watson, the bigoted homophobe, the boring cripple from Afghanistan.

John decided that "Thank you for picking me up," sounded better than, "Thank you for posting my bail," when you were trying to test your girlfriend's temperature. He gingerly rubbed his wrists, all dappled black and blue and yellow from the handcuffs. His fingers were stiff and his hands swollen.

"You're welcome." There wasn't anything welcoming about Sarah's tone.

The left New Scotland Yard together. They walked across the parking lot to her car, Sarah a little ahead of John as if she were in a hurry.

"Sarah," John beckoned timidly, reaching for her. His aching hands found Sarah's. His fingers slid into hers. But her fingers quickly slipped out of his, Sarah glancing over her shoulder at John, recoiling, her brows furrowed.

John shrank back, his pace slowing, stunned. His whole face fell.

"I don't feel like holding hands with you right now," Sarah said directly and firmly, facing back the way she was moving.

John said, "Sarah, I can explain everything."

"Just… _please_. I don't want to do this right now in the parking lot. At least let's go home."

John's heart sank. They weren't going to be together by the end of the night. And why should he expect any different? He'd just been released from jail, arrested for a _hate crime_. A hate crime!

John grit his teeth. Mycroft Holmes knew exactly how to exact the cruelest revenge. John was an untouchable now, a leper of the modern world. Even Lestrade had looked uncomfortable giving John some comforting parting words. Who wants to be associated with a gay basher?

Sighing, John wanted to tell Sarah that he understood. But he didn't know how. Instead he said, "I forgive you if you don't love me anymore."

Sarah grit her teeth. "Don't do that."

John asked, "What?"

"Can't you just let me be mad at you? Can't I just be angry for a few hours without having to decide if I want to break up with you?" She dug in her pocket for her car keys as they crossed the street. "I think I have the right to be disappointed. I thought….I dunno, that you were _decent_. You've always been sweet to people." She made a big, sweeping, meaningless gesture with her hands, cupping the air, as if the whole of their relationship was a tangible thing she could grasp. "I need to…evaluate all _this_."

John wanted to erupt at the blatant unfairness of it all. He teetered on a thin edge between all-out homicidal rage...rage at Sherlock for ruining his life, for destroying any chance John had for a career, for alienating him from his friends and colleagues and now poisoning his relationship with Sarah and also for all the constant put-downs, the manipulation, the disregard for human life and the deliberate and casual cruelty Sherlock was capable of inflicting on people and for everything, for _everything_ …

…and crippling guilt for...

But at the moment, he was raging. "I _am_ decent," John defended. "I'm a helluva nice guy. I'm too goddamn nice. I let people walk all over me. I've had enough. I've especially had enough of Sherlock Holmes."

Sarah whirled around and walked backwards, wanting to face John but unwilling to stop. "Can you hear yourself? Are you out of your _mind_?"

"What?" John demanded.

Sarah was horrified. "Don't let people hear you talk like that. I don't…I don't care if…I don't care, don't you have any sense of self-preservation? I mean….can't youlie? Can't you at least pretend you're sorry?"

"I'm not sorry!" John spat.

Sarah jabbed her finger into John's chest. "Do you have idea how all those people looked at me whoile I was waiting for you? Do you know what they were whispering? You bullied a gay man to death!"

There was a flicker of resentment in John's eyes. "He's _Sherlock_ , not some wilting... You _met_ him, remember? Big gangly, arrogant dick? Not the type to be bullied by anyone?"

"Yes, I remember him. He was your friend. He saved your life and mine."

"Yes, he _was_ my friend…" and at that, John suddenly stopped.

Sarah slowed down and stopped.

"He _was_ my friend," John repeated, more slowly this time, tasting the words as if understanding them for the first time. John sank down a bit, wobbling. He crouched down, head between his knees and started hyperventilating. Reality was sinking in. "Sherlock was my friend…"

_It takes a village to stone a man to death. You didn't do this to him, John, not by yourself. You had lots and lots of help._

"John…" Sarah was beside him before he knew it.

" _He's dead_ ," John wheezed. "He wrote a suicide note and he's gone and nobody knows where he is and he's shot himself or he overdosed in some rat hole somewhere or he jumped in front of a train, but he's gone. He wrote a note. He wrote a note." He wasn't crouching anymore. He sank to his knees, putting his hands on the ground, trying to center his weight, but the whole universe was rocking and gravity wasn't working. He heaved once, nothing coming up, but threatening to. "He wrote a note to _me_. Oh God. Oh _God_ , spare Sherlock Holmes. Let the police find him tonight. Don't let him lay there. Oh my God, please don't let him lay there….," and then he heaved again, dry, painful, and it didn't feel like bile or partially digested food, but like his heart was trying to climb up his throat. "Don't let him _lay there_ , decomposing without dignity for _anyone_ to find, for the junkies and the homeless to go through his pockets…"

The string of gibberish that followed from there on could have been words, but they were unintelligible. Only John understood: Sherlock deserves privacy now. His vulnerable body ought to be somewhere safe and quiet, where his most shocking injuries can be covered, his eyes closed, his hands placed over his chest, fingers laced, his hair combed out of his sightless eyes, blood wiped away, jacket straightened. If there are broken bones, they can never be healed but his limbs can be untangled, laid straight. If his brilliant mind is spilled on the pavement, fragments of his skull embedded in his brains plastered on an ally wall, then the pieces ought to be gathered, never to be made whole but at least reunited in grief and solidarity. The body belongs back in the good earth, kept safe until Judgment.

But John couldn't articulate that meaning. He could barely breathe. When words, _real_ words, returned to him, all he could do was chant to Sarah, "I forgive you if you don't love me anymore…I forgive you if you don't love me anymore..." And he did. He forgave her.

The world only stopped spinning when Sarah cupped John's wet cheeks in her hands and planted two kisses over the tracks of tears under his eyes. John only started breathing again when Sarah kissed his mouth. John gasped helplessly into her lips, sucking in her love like a fish out of water. Whatever love remained for him he needed it to breathe. "Sarah," he whimpered. "Sarah."

 

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

 

John stayed awake all night.

Sarah had gone to bed. John remained up, sitting at Sarah's kitchen table in the dark. His untouched cup of tea was cold in front of him. Partly, he was awake because he wasn't sure if he was welcome in bed. If he crawled beside her and was ejected from her warmth, he…he wasn't sure what he might do.

So he stayed awake and thought. He rested his elbows on the table and steepled his hands in front of his mouth, much the way Sherlock did when deep in thought. It didn't help John think, but it did help John remember Sherlock's slender hands and delicate fingers. It summoned Sherlock to the forefront of his thoughts and when John closed his eyes, he felt as if Sherlock were sitting across the table from him in the same pose. He would do that for minutes at a time.

It was beyond John's capacity to imagine Sherlock could really commit suicide. But he'd read Sherlock's notes on his laptop over and over again. It couldn't be real. Sherlock couldn't have written _that_. He couldn't really contemplate ending his own life. Couldn't fantasize about it, make a plan, follow through, actualize the fantasy. But maybe he _could_. Sherlock had changed into a person he didn't know. Now John didn't know what Sherlock was capable of.

The note was…lovely. It was disgusting. Chilling. Was it meant to be sarcastic? Sherlock could never write something like that and be serious. Not unless he was about to die and never had to answer for it. No. Sherlock wasn't the type to leave a note. Sentiment! Sherlock would never allow it…

_I'm not a stranger to slurs and verbal abuse._

Sherlock's voice had been so raw.

_You aren't even the first person who's called me…_ _that_ _. That word has never haunted me before._

On the stairs, Sherlock had looked up at John with such openness, completely trusting, a shaking hand extended in friendship, asking not only for an apology, but for forgiveness as well. He'd never been so reasonable before, so fair. He'd been human for once, in a shockingly direct and honest way that John couldn't reconcile. He hadn't been Sherlock Holmes, at least not the Sherlock Holmes John had come to know. That had been another man on the stairs. A stranger. An intruder. A threat.

_Let's forget this ugliness. I forgive you. I hope you forgive me._

Not a super human consulting detective, larger than life, eclipsing the sun. Just another man, hand extended, waiting. John just wasn't….he just wasn't comfortable with it. No. No. It was all wrong! Sherlock wasn't a man. He was a _genius_. He couldn't be a man. He hadn't meant to invite a _man_ into his life, not _that_ way.

_Turn around and shake my hand and let's agree to not be angry anymore._

That's not what John agreed to.

He'd invited _Sherlock Holmes_ to be his brother, his confident, his best mate.

Not _this man_. Not this _perfectly rational, patient_...who was this man? Anything else, John reasoned. Anything else would have been okay. Make-up, lingerie, ridiculous outright sassy behavior, anonymous hook-ups, flirting, any number of embarrassing behaviors…John would have been okay with that. But not this. _Not this._

John's vision swam.

He didn't understand his own feelings. What had Sherlock done that offended him so much? What was _wrong_ with him? Why? Why did he feel this way? John knew he should have been happy that Sherlock was trying to be a better friend. In the past, when they'd had disagreements, they'd simply let issues drop, leaving wounds to fester, usually leaving John in worse shape than Sherlock. Now Sherlock had tried to be accommodating, tried to compromise. He'd tried to be human. It just threw John into a rage.

Could it be?

John felt cold inside. Maybe he was everything Mycroft accused him of. Maybe he detested Sherlock because he was gay. There really was no other explanation. His own unjustified hatred left John breathless.

_Think, John. Think. This isn't you. What did Sherlock do? He must have done something. You aren't a bigot. You aren't._

Sherlock's face had been so sad: _"You called me a faggot."_

John deserved every injury visited on him.

 _I am. I am a bigot. I did it to hurt him. I did it on purpose, I did it to humiliate him in front of a group of people who were already inclined to not like him, to make him feel alone. It was calculated and not at all spontaneous like I tell myself. I wasn't sorry I said it, not really. I was secretly pleased I could hurt his feelings. I never _could_ before. It felt good. I was happy I did it. He called me stupid and made me feel bad and he called me dull and ordinary and boring and average over and over again and I hated it, I hated it and I got my revenge. It was extremely satisfying because I only had to put him down _once_ to make him feel as bad as he made me feel every day_.

And there it was. The truth.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

 

John napped restlessly through the day on the couch.

When Sarah left for work she kissed John good-bye on his forehead. "Take a few days off," she urged him. "Get your head straight. Let me know if there's any word about Sherlock."

Blinking drowsily, John squeezed her hand and kissed her chin. "Take a day off with me? I don't want to be alone."

"We can't both take the day off," she said apologetically. "You get some sleep. And come to bed at a reasonable hour from now on, okay?"

John nodded and closed his eyes.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

 

When Sarah's living room grew dim, John was startled awake by the chime on his phone. He'd left it on the arm of the sofa, very close to his ear. When he went off, he sat up like a shot. "God." Grumbling, he took up the phone. He rubbed his eyes. Then he read the text.

_At East London NHS for suicide watch. Here voluntarily._

_  
_

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

 

_To be continued…_


	6. Commitment

John sat in the backseat of Mycroft's town car. He absently massaged his wrists, still tender where the handcuffs bit his flesh the day before. His head lay limp, pressed up against the window. Occasionally, he glanced at the driver. He thought absently, _I can take him._ He could make a run for it, into the hospital, see Sherlock, Mycroft be _damned_.

The door opposite John opened suddenly. Mycroft slid in, shutting the door as he settled.

John waited expectantly, tense.

Mycroft sat quietly. He nodded to the driver and the car began to move.

After a pause, John asked numbly, "How is he?"

"Ruined for life," Mycroft said curtly.

" _Jesus._ Jesus _Christ_ , did he hurt himself?" John imagined Sherlock irreversibly disabled, trapped in a wheelchair.

"No, thank God. _Someone_ intervened and encouraged Sherlock to see a doctor and, in a lucid moment, he _did_." There was a hint of resentment in Mycroft's voice. "I think back on all the times I tried to get Sherlock into rehab and he refused to go."

"But…is he _okay_?"

" _'Okay'_ is subjective," Mycroft answered snidely. "He's not screaming in a straight jacket, hell bent on chewing through his own wrists should he get the opportunity. But he's not as he was before. He's fragile. He let me _hold him._ He's reaching out to complete strangers. He was chatting up the nurses like they were old friends. It was terrible."

"So." John's thumbs poked each other. "What you're telling me is….he's in good spirits?"

Mycroft snorted.

John was puzzled. "What?" he asked hopefully. "Don't we want Sherlock in good spirits?"

Mycroft asked, "How long do you think it will take the Jim Moriarties of the world to eat Sherlock alive?"

John looked straight ahead. "How can you see this a bad thing? Sherlock is safe and sound. He's in a hospital. He's being _treated_." John allowed himself to smile. "He's…on the mend!" His smile grew wider. "Sherlock Holmes went to a hospital. He went to a hospital! _Our_ Sherlock! Our crazy, destructive, impulsive, arrogant Sherlock. He went to a hospital." He was dizzy with relief.

Mycroft glared at John.

John stared at Mycroft, his smile fading. "What?"

Mycroft said, "I could make you vanish and Sherlock would never have to know. In fact, I think it would please him: investigating your disappearance. An unsolved case he could revisit every few years, longing for the friendship he never really had with you, romanticizing your memory. A cathartic and painless end to your _toxic_ relationship."

John just stared, stupefied. His widened eyes slowly narrowed to a glare of his own. "You know, Mycroft, your fixation on your brother is edging on incestuous."

"Pull over," Mycroft beckoned to the driver impatiently.

The car lazily drifted to the side of the road and came to a halt. The doors unlocked sharply. The driver exited the vehicle. John followed the man with his eyes as he circled around to John's door.

Mycroft said furiously, "Since Sherlock will be in the hospital for a while, I recommend you use this time to remove the remainder of your belongings from Baker Street. I don't expect you'll be seeing _me_ ever again, though rest assure I'll have _my_ eye on _you_ , so I leave you with this advice: tread carefully, John Watson, and steer clear of Sherlock Holmes."

John stayed put.

"Get out," Mycroft ordered.

"He's my friend," John said defiantly. "I have a chance to make things right."

"He _used_ to be your friend," Mycroft corrected. "You stated it yourself; you walked away from that relationship and you had every right to, for whatever crap reason you justified to yourself. What Sherlock needs is a fresh start, no old wounds festering. There will be no hearing, no police record. Your life and career can progress and soon all this will be forgotten."

"No," John said. "I'll go to trial. I'll let you drag my name through the mud. Then I'll plead guilty. I'll serve time if that's what it takes. You can't make me abandon Sherlock. Not now. Not when he needs me."

"What makes you think he needs _you_?" Mycroft asked. "What makes you think he wants to see you? He begged me to keep you away. That's why you're here now and not in the hospital. It was Sherlock's wish."

John's jaw flexed in his cheek. "No." He dug his phone out of his pocket, checking his text messages to prove he hadn't been hallucinating. "He told me to visit him in the morning."

"I'm allowing you _one_ opportunity to depart with dignity. I _will_ have you arrested again if you insist. Get. _Out."_

John said, " _No_."

Suddenly, John's door opened. The driver stood there expectantly. John started, then looked back at Mycroft while instinctively digging his fingers into the leather cushions. "Fuck." The driver lunged into the car and grabbed John's arm and he began to drag him out of the car. "Goddamn it!" John howled, grabbing the seatbelt, twisting his legs to press against the seat and the back of the front seat, trying to stay inside the car.

Mycroft looked quietly out his own window, ignoring John's struggle.

John howled, the driver's arm snaking around his neck. "Mycroft! Mycroft! You can't keep me away!"

Mycroft's lips twitched. He steepled his hands, his index fingers pressing pensively to his mouth. He didn't reply.

John's resolved started to crumble. "I'm sorry for everything that happened! I'm sorry for what I did! Wait! Please!" He was slowly dislodged from the seat and dragged away. "Tell Sherlock I'm sorry…tell him he's a good bloke, tell him he's _not_ a _freak_ and people _like_ him, despite what he thinks, _people like him!_ " Just then John lost his grip completely and he and the driver both fell onto the sidewalk. Before the door could slam shut, John grabbed it to keep it open. "They can't help but like him! Even though he's a selfish prick, people like him anyway, people can't help but cheer for him and champion him because he's smart and talented and he's _right_ and he's _Sherlock Holmes for God's sake_ and we all need him to get better so he can go back to _being smart and talented and right all the goddamn time_ and we don't have _time_ for him to be sad and depressed…!" At that moment, the driver pried John's hands off the door. "London's full of blood stains and murder weapons and crime scenes and it's all waiting for him! London is waiting for him!" Then the door slammed shut.

Mycroft sat silent and still.

The driver silently got back into the front seat and closed the door. He adjusted his collar, then put his hands on the steering wheel and obediently waited for direction.

But Mycroft gave no instructions. He glanced back out the window at John. With a flick of his fingers, he pushed a button and lowered the window to let John see him back.

The hum of the window motor made John look up.

Mycroft said, "You tell him _yourself_. Visiting hours start at nine am, sharp. Behave yourself because there's no second chances from here on out." He rolled the window back up and told the driver to take him home.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

John paced anxiously in the behavioral science unit lobby, face grim, mouth taut. He compulsively looked at the clock with every turn, making time crawl. Nine am couldn't come fast enough.

Separating the BSU from the lobby was a solid steel door with a card reader that would remained locked until visiting hours started. There was a booth with a plexi-glass window to buzz staff in and out, manned by a black nurse that watched John intently. John had tried to talk his way into the BSU before it opened and she had firmly shut him down.

"What's five minutes early?" asked John. He was hopped up on too much coffee. His eyes were rimmed red. He hadn't slept.

"What's five minutes of waiting?" she replied. "He's not going anywhere."

John froze and his head snapped in her direction. "How do you know who I'm here to see?"

The nurse gave John a dubious look. "Honey," she _tsked_ , "you wrote it on the visitor log."

John's shoulders relaxed. "Right."

"You're not going to make a big scene are you?" the nurse asked.

"I'm just really, _really_ eager to see my friend." He went back to pacing, wringing his hands in front of him. He tried to take deep, calming breaths. He turned around and around when someone approaching the BSU lobby doors caught his attention. He looked up. The lobby door opened and John saw a familiar face. "Hey John."

"Greg?"

Lestrade stepped slowly into the lobby, letting the door swing shut behind him. He wrung his hands in front of him. He was dressed down, not in his usual suit, but in jeans and a jacket. "I guess I came to the right place."

"Yeah," John confirmed, stepping close. He regarded the DI awkwardly for a moment. They knew each other well by now, but he instinctively drew close, as if he meant to shake hands. But they were too familiar now for formal greetings and John paused, not sure what to do.

Lestrade didn't hesitate though. He put one hand on John's shoulder and squeezed. "How you holding up?" he asked sincerely.

John felt part of himself melt at the physical contact. He contemplated the human species and how touch spoke volumes in the homo-sapien tribe. In response, he put an arm around Lestrade's shoulder and pulled him into a half-hug, hoping he wasn't overstepping the boundaries of male friendship. After all, this day had all the makings of one big embarrassment, so why not start now?

But Lestrade laughed and squeezed John back like a brother. "You ready to do this thing? You and Sherlock gonna work it out?"

John released Lestrade and nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm ready."

Lestrade said pointedly, "Look, I have something to say too; I'm sorry about yesterday. I didn't want to show support for a suspect, not in front of the chief, but I got to thinking about it and…"

"It's okay…," John assured him timidly.

"No, mate, it isn't." Lestrade's face was deeply regretful. "I've felt rotten about it ever since. I'm sorry. I've been thinking long and hard about how I had a part in all this and I could have done something but I didn't." He jammed his hands in his pockets. "Everybody in my team's been making jokes about Sherlock. I didn't correct it. I never stepped in and said, 'Hey, be a professional' or 'Shut up or I'll break your face,' like I should have. I didn't think he was gay, but you know, they all think he's a ponce and they've been calling him nasty shit to his face."

"Greg, you don't have to apologize to me."

"No, let me say it. I have to say it all," Lestrade insisted. He went on, "You know…they don't think much of me. My team. They all roll their eyes at me whenever Sherlock shows up. They think I can't do it on my own, that I play fast and loose with the rules, that I set a bad example for the younger officers. And they're right, John. I got no business being a DI. And then, and _then_ …," he jabbed a finger into John's chest to make a point, "…I let them trash talk Sherlock right to his face. I let them because I didn't want one of them to get fed up and tell the chief I was breaking the rules. I've always known it was just a matter of time before one of them went over my head and, _boom_ , that's my job. Done, over, gone, just like that."

John blinked at the heart-felt confession. "Greg…"

"And so," Lestrade went on, "when I found out that…that Sherlock was gone….that he might be dead…I just. I didn't know what to do. He's my…he's my mate." He let his hand drop. "He's my _mate_ , John. And I chose my job over…a person."

John nodded, his eyes closing. "I know. You don't have to…I know."

Lestrade said, "So…I made a commitment. It was in my head, but…I thought, I'll correct my team. I'll keep them in line. I never should have let it get out of hand. No _sooner_ did I think that, you got arrested. And then the same people _, the same fucking people_ , who called Sherlock a queer where calling _you_ a gaybasher." Lestrade breathed deeply, his chin lifted. "And I didn't say anything. Because the chief was around. And I didn't want him knowing I was friends with a suspect, not when Sherlock was a missing person still, not when I knew my job was about to blow up all around me. So I failed my friends. Twice." He paused. "And I failed my people, too, in a way. I let my homicide team fall apart over this rift over Sherlock. I failed Scotland Yard, and all the people we're supposed to be helping."

"Greg," John said, reaching out for Lestrade's arm. He gripped his sleeve. "It's okay. It really is okay. I forgive you, if that's what you need to hear."

At that, Lestrade smiled. "Well, I appreciate that. But I don't need to hear it. I thought it through and I knew how to make it right and I made my decision." He straightened himself up. "I resigned."

John gaped. "What?"

"This morning," Lestrade said, nodding. "I told the chief everything I did, everything that happened. Then I resigned."

John looked Lestrade up and down. "You look…pretty happy for a man who just walked away from a comfortable pension and a steady income during a recession."

"I feel better," Lestrade confessed. "I feel a lot better." He started laughing, he face awash in relief. "I've just been waiting to get fired all this time. Jesus."

"How's…. the wife taking it?" John asked gingerly.

Lestrade sighed. "As soon as she comes home, I'll tell her. If she ever comes home." He smirked.

"I'm sorry," John offered.

"I made all my own problems," Lestrade said with a sigh. "This is the first decision I've made in years I'm really proud of." He's eyes were gleaming.

John wasn't sure what to say. He felt himself smiling.

Lestrade was smiling again, too. "Hey, don't tell Sherlock. I don't want him feel bad. Actually, he won't feel bad. I don't want him to know his access to crimes scenes has been cut off. _That_ might upset him."

John said, "I think you're going to find that Sherlock likes you a lot more than he's let on. You tell him whatever you want in your own good time. I think he's going to be really happy you came." John paused. "How did you even find out he was here?"

"Mycroft recruited us to join the manhunt for Sherlock," Lestrade said. "Obviously, we didn't find him. But when the search was called off, nobody told us at the Yard why. I made a lot of phone calls but nobody…"

"We?" John echoed. "It wasn't just you?"

Lestrade jabbed his thumb over his shoulder, past the door.

Squinting through the glass doors, John was surprised to see Sally Donovan and several other members of the homicide team milling about at the end of the hallway. Most of the officers were talking amongst themselves, but Donovan in particular was standing apart from the rest, her arms folded, her posture stiff. She stared at them with anticipation, her face unreadable.

John was furious. Scowling, he whirled to face Lestrade. "You _told_ them? You told them Sherlock was in a psychiatric center?"

Lestrade put up his hands. "Now, John, just listen…"

"You told those hateful _jackals_?"

"Sherlock made an open invitation on his blog," Lestrade said. "He posted it. There was a notification in my email this morning." He smiled whimsically. "It's not all tobacco ash and perfume, you know. Some of his posts are…interesting. Did you know that he tested the evaporation rate of glow stick juice by cracking one and dumping it all over his skin and then raving by himself in coat closet for four hours? I would have liked to see that. Just Sherlock Holmes in a closet, dancing. You know. Boom-boom-boom, all by himself…"

"He posted _what_?" John asked feverishly. " _What_ did he post?"

"He came out."

"Out? What do you mean _out_?" John hesitated. "Out-out? Like….out?"

" _Out_ , John. He wrote that he was...that he's gay."

John was stunned.

Lestrade went on, "He wrote that…that coming out hadn't been positive and he was depressed, _really_ depressed, and that he was at East London for suicide watch." He shrugged. "I mean. It was short but it was really direct."

John stared wide-eyed at Lestrade. His mouth was dry.

Lestrade went on, "He wrote that a friend encouraged him to seek help and he did and that he feels better. And that anyone who wants to wish him well can find him here until he's released. Also, until he's 100%, he's not available for consulting work." He nodded at Donovan and the other detectives. "We all read it back at the station when the search was called off. It was kind of dumb of me, I just checked my email before heading home and there was the alert that the blog had been updated and I announced it to everyone. We all read the status update at the same time. No undoing it once I realized what was in it. Anyway. I figured if Sherlock really didn't want people to know, he wouldn't have posted it."

John's mouth was dry. He felt his hands shaking.

Lestrade added, "We all read it. And. I. They all _looked_ at me. And I felt like such garbage. Cause I knew we did this to him. I told the whole team how disappointed I was in them, and in myself. I told them I was resigning. Nobody stopped me. They all waited for me outside the chief's office. When I was leaving, they asked me where I was going, what was I going to do? I told them I was on my way to see Sherlock Holmes. They all…they grabbed their coats and followed me."

"He posted that…on his _blog_? For _anyone_ to see? For all the assholes and the criminals of the world to see?" John sank back against the wall. "For the….for the….the Jim Moriarties of the world to see? Why the hell would he do that?"

"I thought it was incredibly moving," Lestrade said. "I thought it was brave." He looked again at Sally Donovan. "I'm not the only one who thinks so."

"I think it's incredibly insane!" John cried in distress. "Sherlock must have hundreds of enemies."

Lestrade offered, "Well, yeah, he has hundreds of fans, too. All the responses to his post have been very encouraging. People love him for it."

John was distraught. Shaking, feeling ill, he walked slowly to the wall and steadied himself against it. He breathed slowly. _Sherlock._

The nurse announced, "Okay boys. You can go in now."

Lestrade watched John just stand, unmoving. "John? Let's go."

John was silent, his eyes shut.

Lestrade touched John's arm. "Come on."

John shook his head.

"Oh, come on. Don't be like this," Lestrade said. "Sherlock needs support. Go in there and tell him you're mates."

John shook his head. "I think I should go home…" He made to walk away.

Lestrade put his hands on John's shoulders to steady him. "I think you should go in there and say hello to your best friend and tell him you're glad he's alive. That's what I'm gonna do."

"You don't understand," John plead. "In the beginning, I thought I was being sincere. I thought I was accepting. I really looked at myself and I thought I was happy for Sherlock and I could be the friend he needed. But I wasn't. I couldn't have been more spiteful, more vicious. He depended on me." He looked miserably at Lestrade. "I could march in there right now and promise Sherlock I'm sorry and I want things to go back to the way they were and feel completely honest. But I don't trust my own feelings. What if I turn on him later? What if…it gets ugly again?"

Lestrade looked confused. "Then you take it outside and throw some punches at each other until you're mates again. What is wrong with you? Don't you have any brothers?"

John was incredulous. " _Not_ an appropriate answer."

"Why not?"

"The last time I saw Sherlock, I pushed him down a flight of stairs," John said, exasperated. "I _assaulted_ him."

Lestrade thought for a moment. "Hmm. He _is_ gay." He considered it. "Have any sisters?"

John's jaw fell open.

Lestrade asked, "I don't have any sisters. I don't know what you do when you have it out with your sister."

John put his face in his hand, cringing. "You are so… _oh my god_. Please, don't. Don't."

"You have a sister, right? You should have insight."

John was exasperated. "He's not a _woman_! A gay man does not equal a woman."

"Well, fuck if _I_ know what to do." Lestrade sighed and walked towards the door. "I'm going in. You coming or what?"

Frazzled, John followed. "I'm not leaving Sherlock alone with you. You're such an ass."

"I'm not an ass!"

"Please refrain from asking Sherlock about _being_ gay," John demanded. "In fact, don't bring it up. You obviously can't handle delicate topics."

The nurse buzzed them in and Lestrade opened the door. "What if he brings it up?"

John said anxiously, "Just…Jesus, navigate the conversation like an adult and try not to be completely offensive! And if he _does_ bring it up or jokes about it, don't assume he's okay. He could just be acting self-deprecating to test our reactions."

As they went in, Lestrade asked, "Soooo. If he brings it up, I should…what? Ignore it?"

"Oh my God, do I have to explain everything?" John hissed. "Just…be mature."

Just as they began to go inside, the door behind them flung open loudly. Both men turned and their faces fell.

 _"Whoo-hoo!"_ Mrs. Hudson had burst through the door, waving a mini rainbow flag merrily, smiling big. "Boys! Boys! Wait for me."

John held out his arms, feeling the color draining from his face. "Oh God. Oh my God, no. No. Mrs. Hudson, please put that away."

Lestrade put his hands in front of his mouth to hide his smile. He turned away, giggling.

Out in the hallway, the homicide team were in stitches. Several members were doubled-over, one man had crumpled to the floor.

Mrs. Hudson pranced in happily, throwing her arms around John. "Oh, John! Isn't this exciting? Sherlock came out on his blog! I brought my camera."

John wasn't smiling. "Mrs. Hudson, this isn't a coming out party. Sherlock…"

Mrs. Hudson could not be dissuaded. Her grin was infectious, her eyes twinkling.

John fumbled with his words, but he pressed on, taking Mrs. Hudson's hands into his; "Sherlock…he's on suicide watch, do you understand? I don't think he'll want all this attention." He cleared his throat and looked over at Lestrade for support, but Lestrade was busy putting his nose in a corner so no one could hear him laughing. John looked helplessly back at Mrs. Hudson. "Maybe…we should hold off on celebrating until he feels better."

"Nonsense!" Mrs. Hudson said, squeezing John's hands back. "I have to tell Sherlock how proud I am. I need to tell him how much I love him and it can't wait!" She tugged John's hands, planting a kiss on John's forehead. "There's no such thing as an inappropriate day to celebrate Sherlock Holmes! We should thank God for each and every day we have with him, especially since we were so close to losing him. Come on, let's go inside and tell him!"

"Aww, Mrs. Hudson," Lestrade praised, turning around a wiping a gleeful tear from his eye. "That's lovely. Surely, John, there isn't anything _Mrs. Hudson_ can do that could upset Sherlock, is there?"

John's shoulders sank in defeat. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

Mrs. Hudson clamped her hand around John's a dragged him into the BSU with Lestrade close behind. "Sherlock! Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson cooed. "We're here!"

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

_To be continued…_


	7. The Little Flag

The communal visitor center looked something like a cafeteria with no windows. There was a television mounted to the wall in the corner inside a plexi-glass case. There was a coffee vending machine that only brewed decaffeinated coffee. There were half a dozen large, circular tables with matching chairs made of muted off-white molded plastic (no sharp edges), bolted to the floor so they couldn't be thrown or moved. There were stacks of magazines with curled edges and some donated books. Several low risk patients who were not confined to their rooms had meandered in and lounged around the television, a few reading.

Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. The three visitors stood awkwardly at the entrance, then looked at each other.

"Do we wait?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock had told John to come. Naturally, John expected him to be waiting. Puzzled, John turned slowly, taking in the room.

There were two ways in, one where they'd just entered, and another that led into a corridor at the other end of the center, leading to the patients' rooms. A large sign over head read "No Visitors Past this Point." Sounds of muffled crying and dull thuds echoed up that hallway. John thought about the misery neatly tucked away in those rooms. Undoubtedly, Sherlock was there, somewhere.

Suddenly, John's intermittent-tremor hand spasmed.

John grunted painfully. He turned away from Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and walked off directionlessly. He jammed his hand in his pocket to still his fingers and distract the shooting pain in his joints and as he did, his fingers curled around the _Bamboo Pink_ lipstick. He'd forgotten it was still there. He rolled it around in his fingers, squeezing until the ache passed.

"Look," Lestrade said, pointing towards the patients' corridor.

John and Mrs. Hudson looked just in time to see Mycroft rounding a corner and, upon seeing the three of them, his step quickened as he walked.

 _Damn it, not again,_ John thought. He felt Mycroft's phantom hands around his throat, squeezing his windpipe shut.  He squared himself and waited with his hands stiffly at his side, ready for anything.

"Excuse me," Mycroft announced, unexpectedly pleasant, as he entered the visitor's center proper, clasping his hands in front of him. "I know you're all anxious to see Sherlock, but I'm afraid you're going to have to wait just a little longer. Please make yourselves comfortable."

John asked, "Is everything okay?"

"Everything is fine," Mycroft assured him (too quickly, too soothingly.) "There was a minor incident this morning with Sherlock. Its presently being sorted."

Electricity jolted up John's spine as he imagined the possibilities: "Moriarty?"

Mycfort said, "God, no. I assure you, nothing _that_ serious."

 _"Mycroft_ ," John pressed.

"It's _nothing serious_ ," Mycroft insisted.

John stared at Mycroft unbelieving.

"Well," Mycroft amended. "Nothing _life-threatening_."

"Ah." John inhaled, puffing up his chest. Now he understood. "Feeling the consequences of making that post on his blog?"

Mycroft twisted his lips in a sour, non-committal expression to neither defend his brother or agree with him and John knew immediately that he was right.

Lestrade turned towards John, saying reproachfully, "Don't be like that. I'm sure it took a lot of courage to come out like that, on his blog and all..."

"Courage?" Mycroft interjected, unable to hold back his bitter opinion, "Or one stupid impulse?"

Mrs. Hudson huffed in disapproval. "It's not _stupid_. You should be proud of your brother!"

"Why?" Mycroft asked. "Because he isn't in his right mind? Because he isn't thinking through his decisions? Making his deeply personal struggle public in a _blog_ _post_ is not a sign that he's come to terms with this situation or that he's making a recovery. It's just another instance of Sherlock behaving..."

Mrs. Hudson folded her arms and glared at Mycroft, daring him to insult her precious Sherlock.

Mycroft stared at Mrs. Hudson blankly for a moment. Then he smiled thinly and finished, "…not like himself."

Mrs. Hudson lifted her chin. "Sherlock has every right to say what's in his heart," she defended. "He's a good boy." She marched up to Mycroft and jutted her index finger into his chest, looking none-too-pleased. "And I want to see him right now."

"Sherlock is preoccupied…," Mycroft began.

"Right now!" Mrs. Hudson insisted, loudly.

John studied Mycroft's face, saw how the other man's face fell in an uncharacteristic way that should have been beneath him. John could see how his body language, usually finely tuned to exude authority and control, was showing signs of fatigue of impending defeat. Something serious had transpired in the past twelve hours. Something more severe than the bruising of Sherlock's pride.

"What happened, Mycroft?" John pressed. "What can I do to help?"

Mycroft rolled his shoulders. Composure regained, all hope for the truth was lost. "I'm afraid there's nothing to be done now. It's just going to have to play itself out."

Just at that moment, the lobby doors opened and everyone turned to see Molly Hooper walking quickly inside, looking rattled and rushed and surprisingly well-dressed in a white cotton suit. She looked at Mycroft with uncertainty and then at John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson each in turn. "Oh. Um. Hi, everyone."

Lestrade dumbly lifted his hand and half-waved.

Mrs. Hudson followed suit awkwardly.

John slowly thirded the wave.

"Molly Hooper," Mycroft greeted, looking her over in a mixture of relief and sympathy. "I apologize for the inconvenient timing but Sherlock asked specifically for _you_."

John's head whipped in Mycroft's direction. Sherlock asked for _Molly?_

"No, no, that's fine," Molly said quietly. "I don't think the interview was going anywhere."

Mycroft motioned towards the tables. "If you and the others will take a seat, Sherlock will be along soon. He'll be very glad to see you." He pointedly looked at John. " _All_ of you."

John cleared his throat. The betrayal must have been written all over his face. He tried to swallow it back.

Just as Mycroft began to turn away, Molly said timidly, "I'm sorry. I've only seen you once before…"

"Mycroft Holmes," he reminded her. "Sherlock's elder brother."

"Sorry," Molly said. "Hello again then, Mycroft. Sorry I didn't remember…"

"It's quite alright, _I'm_ very familiar with _you_."

"Oh," Molly said, as if it explained everything.

Mycroft nodded and continued on towards the hall.

Molly called after him, "What was the emergency? Is everything okay?"

Mycroft didn't stop, but turned around backwards and offered her a half-smile. "We're having something of a modest catastrophe and Sherlock….well, he was rather insistent. He'll be along shortly, I promise, and he can explain then…but if you'll just take a seat for now… By the way, you deserve my most heart-felt thanks. Your intervention may very well have saved Sherlock's life..."

Everyone looked at Molly then, and, impossibly, she shrank further.

John's teeth were tightly pressed together.

In his mind, a vivid picture was forming. A picture of Sherlock and Molly: Molly, with the revealing and poorly fitted black dress at the Christmas party with the pathetic little gift. Molly Hooper. Odd and dull and boring and endearing and loyal and too eager to please, like John.

Ah. Well. It had taken exactly _zero_ time and effort to be replaced. Damaged side-kicks are a dime a dozen, apparently.

Mycroft added as he moved on, "…and I would like to express my gratitude more thoroughly, but there's something _very_ pressing that demands my immediate attention. So if you'll please excuse me…"

Molly put up her hands nervously. "Not at all."

Mycroft ducked down the hall and turned a corner.

Molly turned around shyly and gave everyone a shrug.

 _"You?"_ John asked Molly smugly.

"Me…what?" Molly asked.

John strutted up to Molly, looking her up and down. " _You_ were the friend Sherlock wrote about on his blog." He gave her six months, max.

Molly, confusion in her expression, looked back and forth between John and Lestrade. "What are you talking about? What blog?"

Lestrade explained, "Sherlock wrote openly about what's been happening on his blog. He put it out there that he's gay and he was at the hospital for suicide watch and that a friend encouraged him go. We've all been wondering who that was, considering that we've all been looking for Sherlock for days. That's how we all got here."

Molly blinked. "I didn't know."

"He posted it this morning," Lestrade finished. "Or late last night, I'm not sure."

Molly's expression flickered. Excitement, disbelief. "I told Sherlock he might want to _consider_ coming out and maybe his blog was the way to do it…but he so vehemently rejected the idea…I didn't think he would do it!"

John smirked. Oh, this was _rich_. "Sherlock talks to _you_ about being gay?"

Molly balked and backed up a few steps, but John remained in her personal space, following her.

"When _exactly_ did you last talk to Sherlock?" John demanded, an edge in his voice, possessive and hungry. "Has he been hiding out with you? Do you have any idea what I've been going through, waiting for him to come back?"

"John," Lestrade said, putting his hand on John's shoulder and pulling at him. "Hey. Lay off."

John's focus remained completely on Molly. "What did you two talk about?"

"John," Mrs. Hudson said critically. "That's really not very good. What friends tell each other in confidence should be respected. I'm sure if Sherlock told Molly anything, he would want it to stay private. Just wait your turn. Mycroft said Sherlock would be here soon…"

John looked at Mrs. Hudson. "Sherlock and Molly aren't _friends_. _I'm_ Sherlock's friend. He doesn't have _other friends_."

Molly gazed at John for a long minute, her face bewildered but her stare very focused. She examined John's face back as carefully as he seemed to be examining hers.

Lestrade barked at John indignantly, "And what am I? Chopped liver? I'm Sherlock's friend, too. So's Mrs. Hudson. You don’t have a monopoly on Sherlock Holmes. Christ, what's gotten into you?"

John looked at Lestrade, then to Mrs. Hudson, his bravado wilting under their hot, stern gazes. He looked at Molly and she was giving him the same look. "Sorry. I…I know that," he admitted. "I didn't mean it." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't know where that came from."

Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson's expressions softened a bit at John's admission, and John knew he was forgiven.

However, Molly's face was still unchanged. She was stiff, her face blank. She had an expression like she'd just been crossing a dark parking lot and a stranger came out from behind a car to hit her up for her number and wouldn't let her leave. She looked at John like he was an unassessed threat. Regardless of what he might say, whatever smooth line he might use, she didn't believe his intentions were good. All her instincts screamed at her to run. Or fight.

John said, "Look, I don't know. I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm saying." He ran his hands through his hair. "I'm just really strung out. I'm so desperate to see Sherlock with my own eyes and see that he's really alive and I can't take another delay. I'm sorry, Molly. I didn't mean to jump on you like that."

"I _am_ friends with Sherlock, just so you know," Molly said. She didn't sound defensive or snotty, but she said it firmly and seriously in a way that suggested there was no room for interpretation.

"I'm not saying you _aren't_ ….I just. I don't know." He inhaled sharply and left the sentence unfinished. He looked away and breathed for a moment.

Molly paused, as if waiting for John to complete his sentence. When he didn't, she pushed, "You don't know what?"

"Molly, stop," Lestrade urged. "Don't antagonize John. He said he was sorry. Leave it."

"No," Molly said more firmly and little louder. "I want to know what he means. _John:_ what do you mean 'You don't know'? You don't know _what_?"

"I…I don't…I don't…" John looked over at Lestrade, who shrugged at him in turned. John looked at Mrs. Hudson, who put up her hands. John looked back at Molly. "What the _hell_ are you asking me?" He wasn't sorry anymore. Now he was being provoked and he didn't like it. He was only going to feel repentant towards so many people.

Molly said, "I said, 'I'm friends with Sherlock' and you said, 'I don't know.' _What don't you know?_ Do you think I'm a liar?" Now Molly wasn't just loud, she was talking down to him like he was stupid.

And being talked to like he was stupid wasn't something that John was _ever_ going to put up with again. "I didn't call you a liar. Stop putting words in my mouth. What are you being so touchy about?" John said, trying to hold on to his cool. "I said I was _sorry_." But it was the kind of smug 'sorry' now where he didn't really mean it, like he was proud to make someone else miserable. "I just…have never seen you and Sherlock together socially. I know that you've known him longer than me and maybe you have some history I don't know about…but…in the two years we've been flat mates, he's never mentioned you." John exhaled. "Not once."

Molly just stared at John.

John waited, hands on his hips.

Molly said, "I don't have a crush on him anymore. I know he's gay _. I get it_."

John said, innocently, sarcastically, "I wasn't suggesting anything."

"Okay," Lestrade said, stepping between them. "Why don't you two just relax?" He looked miserable. "This is absolutely not the time or place for…whatever this is."

"I didn't go seeking him out," Molly said over Lestrade's shoulder at John. "He came to _me_. Just so you know."

John nodded vigorously right back at her. "I bet you think he's there to see you _every time_ he comes, right?"

"John, stop," Lestrade protested, facing him.

Molly crossed her arms defensively.

"Let me give you some friendly advice," John offered Molly. "Sherlock Holmes may seem larger than life. He may seem…brilliant. And exceptional. And what he does is important and he's the only one who can do it. And if he singles _you_ out and asks for _your_ help, it will make you feel like _you're_ something extraordinary, too."

Lestrade put his arms gently on John's shoulders and pushed nudged him, making John back up. John allowed himself to be manhandled, but he continued to talk. "He…sweeps you up, carries you away. But before you know it, you're just another _thing_. You belong to him. He won't care if you're tired, if you've had enough. He won't tolerate _you_ putting anything or anyone else before him, but he'll _never_ put you first. It's always the work. _It's always the work."_

"Okay, John," Lestrade said encouragingly, leading John to a table and pulling out  a chair. "Just…have a seat. Over here."

"You're just a _voyeur_ ," John went on, "watching Sherlock Holmes pursue his true love, watching him openly swoon over a criminal, over the grisly details of the crime like some groupie. All the while, you're dragging your ass past exhaustion, when you feel like you're going to die if you take one more step, _for him_ , _always for him_ , but _he_ can't even be bothered to look over his shoulder at _you_ to make sure you're still alive, then you'll finally ask yourself, 'What am I doing here?' And even though all it might take is one simple, 'Thank you' and everything would be forgiven, what you can expect every time, _every single time without exception_ …is to be called an 'idiot'." John nodded emphatically, not even noticing Lestrade forcing him to sit down. "If that's the life for you…if you like being called stupid…if that motivates you, if that's your idea of friendship…you know…he's all yours." John put up his hands. "I don't want that life anymore."

Molly asked, "I can't believe really came here to tell Sherlock that you don't want to be friends anymore."

"Maybe I did," John said, looking between his knees at the floor.

"Molly," Lestrade urged quietly, walking to her. "John needs to just sit by himself for a little while. Come with me." He extended his arm and touched Molly's shoulder and together they went to the other side of the room.

"He should go then" Molly said. "So he doesn't say something hateful to Sherlock."

"John's got a lot to sort out in his heart," Lestrade murmured. "I can't think of a safer place to get your head straight than at a psychiatric hospital."

That left just Mrs. Hudson staring at John, her little rainbow flag still between her fingers. But no longer waving it, the fabric drooped in her grasp. It looked as disappointed as Mrs. Hudson.

"Don't look at me like that," John scoffed. "You didn't really think we were happy together, did you? Me and Sherlock?"

Mrs. Hudson said, "I know that Sherlock doesn't think you're a 'thing.' He adores you."

"He doesn't," John said bitterly.

"He does. He thinks the world of you."

"Well, I wish he wouldn't because I don't think that much of him anymore…"

"He told me so."

John didn't answer.

Mrs. Hudson dragged a chair close to John and sat down in it, leaning her head down close to his. "He was so excited when he met you. He called me up one afternoon. Said he'd take me up on that offer for the flat because he'd found someone to share it with, that he wanted to start moving in right away. He said 'Mrs. Hudson, he's an _army doctor_ , you'll like him.' He was so tickled." She laughed a little.

John said nothing, hanging his head.

Mrs. Hudson's feet and John's feet were close together, her left knee nearly touching his right knee. And in her fingers, between his legs, she twirled the rainbow flag in a spiral. "Looks silly, doesn't it?"

It took John a moment to realize she was talking about the rainbow flag. "It's embarrassing," John said. "Who decided on rainbow colors for gay pride? Couldn't they have picked something with more dignity?"

"Or something not so loud?" suggested Mrs. Hudson. "Something mournful?"

"Mmm. I see your point." John's limp hand drifted closer and he ran his fingers over the fabric. "But rainbow?"

"You're right." Mrs. Hudson smiled and dragged the fabric over John's knuckles. "They're clown colors. You'd have to be really, _really_ proud to wave a flag that looks like this." She swirled the little flag around and looked John in the eye. "I'm _that_ proud." She took the tiny wooden pole of the flag and put it in John's hand. "Here. You give it a try."

John held the flag in his open palm. He closed his fingers over it and held it limply. He stared at it. "I can't," he said, handing it back.

Mrs. Hudson didn't take it from him, leaving it in John's hand. "Imagine how Sherlock feels. He can't ever give it back."

John opened his palm again and looked at the rainbow flag.

Mrs. Hudson said, "He either has to…learn to be proud of that silly little thing…or hate himself along with it for the rest of his life." Now, she took the rainbow flag from John. "I think he wears those black suits because every day is a funeral."

John started laughing a bit.

Across the room, Molly and Lestrade were sitting together. They both looked over at John and Mrs. Hudson.

"What is it?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"I had this picture in my head," John said with a little smile. "Of a big gay pride parade. Like one of those crazy ones you see on television. Like the ones they have in New York or Miami, everyone half-dressed, with body paint, running crazy in the streets, with streamers, people wearing condoms in their hair. And then there's Sherlock, standing on the sidewalk, completely unimpressed going; ' _Dull_.'"

Mrs. Hudson dissolved into laughter and John started laughing again with her. "Oh, yes," Mrs. Hudson remarked, "That's Sherlock."

John licked his lips and shook his head. "Yeah." He stood up.

Mrs. Hudson sat up and looked lovingly at John.

John stood absolutely still for a moment. "WHY?!" he screamed suddenly, kicking a bolted table infront of him with such force that two legs cracked and plastic shards flew in every direction, nearly sending the table flying but for the two remaining legs.

Mrs. Hudson yelped and jumped up from her chair and in a minute, Lestrade was up, putting his arms around her and pulling her  a safe distance from John. Molly got up as well, taking shelter behind Lestrade.

"Why?!" John shouted again, giving another forceful kick, dislodging a third leg and toppling over the table. "Why did he have to be gay?!" One more kick destroyed it completely, and he picked it up and flung it across the room. The other patients, in their chairs around the television, scrambled and ran off. "What am I supposed to say when he comes out here?! 'Hey, sorry I made you feel bad. We can be friends again, but I'm going to live with my girlfriend and not with you and we'll have different jobs and probably never see each other. How's that sound?'" John flung himself against a wall and pounded his fists against it. "Why did I have to say 'faggot'?! _Why did I say that word?_ I meant to say something else, I really fucking did, it just slipped _out_ , it just came _out_ , I didn't mean to say it. He's such a _ponce_ , he's such a bastard. Why couldn't I just have a row with him like a normal bloke? He called me an idiot, he was rude to my girlfriend. He's such an inconsiderate asshole and a prick and _fucker_ , God, _what a dick._ I could have called him _anything else_ that morning, I could have said _any other word_ and this wouldn't have happened. He would have just blown me off and done his thing and everything would be normal. But I had to say the most horrible thing I could think of. He doesn't care about anything. He'd never listen to me. I'm just a fucking _nothing_ to him, I'm nobody. Just a pathetic cripple he picked up for kicks. He pretends I'm important and I'm not. I wish I never came back from Afghanistan. I wish I never met him and never saw how stupid and ugly and boring I was. I wish I was dead in the desert." John turned around, resting his back against the wall, his hands clenching into fists. Finally, he stopped and looked at his friends.

Lestrade was staring at John in shock, his arms encircling Mrs. Hudson who looked horrified. Molly stood behind Lestrade, looking suspicious and ready.

John said, "I'm sorry. Tell Sherlock I'm sorry. I'm not the friend he needs. I'm nothing. Except this. I could have died in service of my country and been someone, been a hero." He began to walk towards the exit. "I have to go."

And suddenly, Mycroft was there. Nobody saw him emerge or approach, just suddenly he was quickly walking through everyone's line of sight, making a beeline right for John. He reached down and grabbing John by the upper arm and shoving him around to face him. "I told you that you had one chance and that I wouldn't give you another," he said not angrily or impatiently, just authoritatively. "You're making me regret that I allowed you to come here. Do you understand that we heard everything you just said all the way in Sherlock's room? I think the whole hospital heard you."  He yanked a handkerchief from his breast pocket and thrust it into John's hands. "Wipe your face and turn around and don't. Say. Another. Word." He turned around in the direction he had come. "I'll see you out, Mummy."

 

 


	8. The Letter and the End

Everyone turned around to see Sherlock and his mother walking down the hallway and into the visitor's center. Sherlock looked as harrowed and miserable as he had ever been. His mother didn't look too pleased, either. She was rigid and indignant, walking swiftly ahead of Sherlock.

John cleaned his face as quickly as he could, standing a little behind Mycroft for cover. He was mortified. He swallowed hard, tried to calm his labored breathing. Once he felt he had a bit of control back, he peered curiously over Mycroft's shoulders to get his first real look of the matriarch of the Holmes family.

She was slender, angular and tall, just like her sons, and John could see the other similarities immediately. It was apparent, not just from the sharp cheekbones or the flawless alabaster skin, but in her walk, in her solemn, dark ensemble and in the way she acknowledged no one, oozing money and entitlement.

Sherlock was practically chasing after her, but he was losing enthusiasm now as he caught sight of his friends, his strides shrinking.

It was instinctive. To step forward. To want to touch Sherlock, embrace him and...but the motion died almost immediately when John's movement drew Sherlock's attention. Sherlock's eyes found John. And the way that Sherlock very subtly…very subtly…shrank back, eyes wide made John shrink back as well. The two men only briefly looked at each other, both expressions uncertain, but in that instant John knew everything he needed to know: _it will never be the same._

Unwilling to come any closer, Sherlock stopped at the entrance to the visitor's center. He looked after his mother with an expression of raw suffering. "Mum!" he called,  just once.

He was ignored. Mummy Holmes continued on.

Everyone's shoulder's drooped as they understood.

John's whole spirit sank, down, down to the floor. The back of his neck flashed hot, prickling with sweat, while a chill settled between his shoulder blades.

 _No_. _No. Jesus, she reads his blog. He wrote it for her, not for anyone else, not for his "fans" or the vultures at the Yard. His mum. Oh God. She rejected him._

Sherlock's entire universe must be imploding, John thought. It wasn't just his friendship with John that was disintegrating… _everything_ was disintegrating.

His relationships, his home, his work…it was all poisoned now, contaminated by regret, with no refuge, no relief.

Now John really appreciated what he'd done: by betraying Sherlock's trust, he'd deprived Sherlock of his only safe harbor.

Mycroft silently joined Mummy Holmes. They walked side-by-side, their strides in perfect step. He followed her as far as the lobby door, then opened it for her. "Until Christmas, then?"

She didn't stop. She passed through without pausing.

"Should I bother, even _then_?" Mycroft asked after her sullenly. "Is this good-bye?"

She stopped suddenly on the other side and turned to look at him.

Mycroft waited expectantly. He folded his hands in front of him.

"There are therapies, Mycroft," she said, sounding long-suffering. "Reparative therapies endorsed by Angelican Mainstream and Core Issues that are non-coercive and non-judgmental that have been proven to reduce same-sex attraction. There are _doctors_ who can help struggling young men like…"

 _"Doctors."_ Mycroft sneered. "Yes, I haven't forgotten your political allegiances or _where_ you donate your money."

John was horrified. She couldn't really mean…? Did people really still think like that? He felt his stomach churn. Yes, people still thought like that. And _he_ was one of them. He was a bigot, he was among their ranks. He didn't run a hate website and he didn't seek out gays to bully, but it was attitudes like _his_ that made it possible for extreme world views like _hers_ to continue, unchallenged. He was an accessory to hate.

"Mycroft," his mother admonished, " _Look_ at your brother."

Back in the corner, Sherlock had slumped against the wall. Haunted and alone, he held his own thin body, like he might fall apart at any moment. Wordlessly, he turned around and shuffled back down the hallway in the direction he'd come, without saying anything to his friends.

"I don't have to look at him," Mycroft said. "I grew up in the same house with the same parents and the same values. Hire all the witch doctors you want. It's not going to undo the years of hearing about how our bodies are sinful, that sex is dirty and that _we_ are dirty."

"He's _confused_ ," the mother spat back, "because he had _no father_ to look up to…"

"We had a _lovely_ father," Mycroft countered. "I was very fond of him, regardless of the state of your marriage."

"I was trying to protect you two from the predators and the child molesters that target vulnerable little boys in crisis…"

"No _, no_ , _you_ were trying to _insulate_ yourself…"

"Little boys!" she hissed over Mycroft, "Little boys in crisis that attract sexual predators…"

Mycroft was hissing right back at her now, too: "… from jokes and rumors that your husband left you, and rather than shrink into the shadows and hide from your friends, you paraded me and Sherlock around during those _awful_ support groups, telling your story while _we_ sat there, these strangers looking at us and shaking their heads and feeling sorry for us, telling us there was no reason we couldn't grow up to be fine young men, that we weren't ruined just because our father was gay, that we would both be fine. As if there was _any reason_ why we _wouldn't_ be fine."

The woman carried on, her emotions flaring. "And there's still hope. There's still hope for Sherlock…"

Mycroft's anger was ratcheting; "There's _nothing wrong with Sherlock."_

She angrily pointed behind her, in Sherlock's direction. "He's sick! My son is sick. And he's a drug addict on top of it all…!"

Mycroft said, "Addiction doesn't discriminate between gay or straight. _And_ he's recovering remarkably, by the way, he's shown extraordinary discipline." Mycroft straightened up, flustered. "He's a brilliant man with a successful career, he's admired and respected and there's _nothing wrong with him_. He's a smashing success and a gifted detective! Ask _anyone_ at Scotland Yard."

John listened in rapt attention. He'd never heard Mycroft spare a word of praise for Sherlock, ever. Ever. He looked frantically back at Sherlock, but he'd already rounded the corner and disappeared. John wanted to run after him and drag him back so Sherlock could hear everything that Mycroft had to say, but he was rooted to the spot. He was still humiliated, and Sherlock's mother's proud ignorance shamed him further. He hated her. He hates himself. He hated himself for being like her, even if only a little.

The woman pointed out angrily, "He's in a mental hospital! He tried to kill himself. This isn't normal, Mycroft!"

Mycroft said furiously, "You know, I've been pelted by your nasty conservative views my whole life. I've had to suffer in silence while you and your friends casually infer that gay men who adopt molest their children, or they force their adoptive kids to be gay, as if sexual orientation were something that could be taught or influenced. I never wanted to be held up as an example, like I knew you would, so I've kept the truth to myself. But the fact is I'm gay. I'm gay, just like Sherlock."

The woman was silent, shocked.

John swallowed audibly. Across the room, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and Molly watched the little family drama climax.

"Blame father if you want,"  Mycroft hissed. "Blame God. Blame pedophiles or the media or pornography or liberals or whoever you want."

The woman said evenly, "The _both_ of you."

"Yes," Mycroft said. "Unfortunately, you'll have to bequeath our inheritance to your beloved hate-charity if you wish to pass on your legacy."

The wounded woman inhaled sharply, jutting out her chin indignantly. Then she turned around sharply and pushed her way through the doors and was gone.

Mycroft remained perfectly still for a moment. Then his shoulders sank and he exhaled a shaking sigh. He turned around slowly and wiped his brow with his sleeve, his hand visibly shaking. Then he straightened his tie and smoothed his hands down the front of his jacket. He cleared his throat. "Please excuse that," he said absently and politely, as if a dog had messed in the middle of a Christmas party and he were beckoning the maid. "I'm sorry you all had to listen to that. Please excuse me." He patted his breast pocket anxiously, looking for his handkerchief he'd handed to John, forgetting he had parted with it. "Excuse me."

Mrs. Hudson was up in a flash. She hurried over to Mycroft and took her own hankie out of her pocket and handed it to him. "Oh yes, thank you," he mummered, "that's exactly…yes." But his hands were shaking so violently that Mrs. Hudson hand to hold his wrist to place the hankie in his grip. He patted his eyes and his damp forehead and gave it back to Mrs. Hudson, then straightened his jacket. "I have to see to my brother."  

"No, that's fine," Mrs. Hudson assured him, folding the hankie in her hand. She patted his arm. "You boys take your time."

Mycroft didn't move right away. He stood, staring at nothing, disoriented.

Mrs. Hudson nudged Mycroft. Finding him unresponsive, she hooked her arm around his and literally pulled him out of his stupor. "Sherlock. I have to check on Sherlock," Mycroft said. "He's….well, you saw."

"He went this way, dear," Mrs. Hudson said kindly, and they went together.

Lestrade and Molly were drawn towards them and in a moment, a little silent procession marched down the hall towards Sherlock's room. Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Lestrade and Molly.

John watched them go, unable to follow. No one looked at John or questioned that he didn't go with them. He watched them until they went around the corner.

He didn't belong.

He found a chair and sat down in it and thought for a long time.

_Extraordinary. Spectacular. Bravo, Mycroft Holmes. That was perfect. Good for you for getting it so right when I got it so wrong._

John had never believed in destiny. His understanding of God was….vague at best. He didn't believe that there was a Plan for him, or that fate predetermined his future. He didn't think he was meant to be shot in Afganistan or that he was meant to meet Sherlock Holmes, or that _any_ of this was meant to happen.

But he could see his future now. Clearly. All laid out in front of him, and all he needed to do was rise from his seat and meet it. And it was comforting, because it was the right thing to do. Because it was the most sincere and loving thing he was capable of. Because he still loved Sherlock. He loved Sherlock very much and he wanted Sherlock to have a happy life. John's hang-ups were his own and nothing for Sherlock to sort out. Sherlock had his own challenges ahead. This was for the best.

John stood up and walked towards the lobby doors and saw himself out.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

In the time he'd been granted, John finished moving the remainder of his belongings from the flat he'd shared with Sherlock for two years.

Then he cleaned 221b from top to bottom. He straightened everything, dusted and vacuumed and scoured the kitchen and the bathroom and removed any trace of the offensive message scrawled on the mirror. He meticulously gathered every shard of wood from Sherlock's destroyed violin and deposited them and the rest of its mangled wreckage into its case, which he locked and put aside beneath the coffee table. He cleaned all the dishes gathered in the sink and put them away. He emptied the fridge of everything, _everything_ , and put the garbage bags to the curb, human remains and all. He went to the wall that had been shot and spray painted with a smiley face and scrubbed the spray paint away, filled the holes with spackle. He went into Sherlock's bedroom and gathered his laundry into baskets and made his bed, opened up the curtains and the window and let fresh air in. He took most of Sherlock's clothes to the dry cleaner and paid for them. When he came home, he a post-it note on Sherlock's bedroom door explaining his where his clothes had gone. Then he went into the sitting room and worked his key off his keychain and left it on the coffee table. He walked out off 221b, closing the door and locking it behind him.

On his way out of the building, he stopped at Mrs. Hudson's door. He took a envelope marked "RENT" out of his breast pocket. Inside was the remainder of his life savings. He pushed it under her door.

He went out the front door of 221 Baker Street and walked down the steps into the busy London street, never to return.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

John checked Sherlock's website every day. It didn't change. It only said that Sherlock was not available for detective work until further notice.

Six weeks later, there was a subtle change; Sherlock Holmes was _no longer available_ for detective work.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

John lived with Sarah for a while. John loved Sarah very much. And after Sarah gently told John she wanted him to leave, John still loved Sarah, but now he loved her from far away. He forgave her for not loving him anymore, just as he'd promised. He loved her for the rest of his life and never had another girlfriend.

He couldn't afford London on an army pension.

He thought about reaching out to Harry and decided against it. What he really wanted to do was go back to Afghanistan. He was physically well. His limp was gone. He had no future. He wanted to serve a higher purpose again, be part of a cause.

But somehow, in the midst of all those cases and with Sherlock dominating his life for so long, he hadn't been paying much attention to politics. Unbelievably, the war was over.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Six months later, John's therapist Ella helped John find a hostel for homeless veterans.

He put some of his things in storage. His most valuable possessions he gave to Harry for safe keeping, carefully dodging her attempts to forcefully make him live with her. He spent his days searching for work and not finding any, and he spent his nights in the company of other former soldiers. John was at home.

Ella put John on medication and John became more at home. The medicine didn't make John any happier, but it made him feel okay about not being happy. So he stopped searching for a job and didn't mind it that his pants were dirty and that there was a hole in his sleeve. No one judged him and no one had any expectations of him. He didn't disappoint anyone. And that was nice. He didn't write in his blog because he left his computer with Harry, so there weren't people constantly commenting about what he was doing with his life, which was fine because he wasn't doing anything.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

At the peak of summer, John stopped showing up to his appointments with Ella.

When John didn't see Harry to pick up his pension check, Harry called around. No one knew where John was. After her frantic prompting, the police used gps to locate John's phone, which they found in a rubbish bin in Russell Square Gardens. There was no sign of John and none of the local people recognized him from a photograph.

There wasn't officially a missing person's case because John hadn't had a fixed address in over a year. He'd moved out of the hostel weeks ago. No one knew why. In fact, no one really remembered a John Watson.

It wasn't her jurisdiction. And he didn't have credentials anymore. But they still considered John a friend, even though they hadn't seen him in a long time, when they heard he was missing, they immediately made a plan. Sally Donovan and Greg Lestrade went up and down the street, stopping in every shop and pub, asking if anyone knew John Watson, a homeless vet who might be in the area. No one did.

"There's lots of drifters and bums in the park this time of year," one man said with a shrug. "They all look the same to me."

Lestrade held up a photo. It was an old photo and, according to Ella and Harry, John had lost weight since it was taken. "He's a vet…,"

"They're all vets," the man dismissed, going back to work.

Dejected, Lestrade turned around and walked out of the pub. Donovan was waiting for him, looking anxious. They walked together for a while.

"Like old times," Donovan eventually said, but without affection. You didn't look back on murders and missing persons with affection.

They found nothing, though they stopped every person they met until dusk. When it became too dark to accomplish anything meaningful, they waited on a street corner, trying to flag down a cab.

"How do you like being DI?" Lestrade asked Donovan.

"It's miserable, thank you. And your new job?"

"The pay is crap. The hours are crap. There's no benefits and the accommodations aren't accommodating. I literally have a _couch_ and that's it. And I have to share it." But Lestrade was smiling as he said it. There was life in his eyes. "But it was better than haggling with the ex-wife over who got the house."

Donovan shrugged. "Couldn't you and Molly…negotiate a time-share for the second bedroom?"

"Yeah right. She moved in first."

"And Sherlock's not willing to…?"

"Oh, God, no, I wouldn't even ask. The guy's my friend, my boss, my flat mate…and you want me to share a bedroom with him? I can barely share a refrigerator with him. You won't believe what he keeps in there. I won't tell you."

Donovan rested her head back. "Isn't it a mad house in that tiny little flat? All three of you, bumping into each other?"

"Mornings are crazy. You should see us all trying to muscle in on the coffee."

Donovan made a small hum of desire. "Coffee," she murmured. "Coffee sounds good."

Lestrade said opportunistically, "You should come over sometime. See the mad house for yourself."

"Hmph."

"I'm serious."

She said nothing, scanning the traffic for a taxi.

"He's not going to insult you, Sally," Lestrade said. "I bet he'd like to see you."

She said, "He can pretend to mend burned bridges. But he doesn't want my friendship. He's just a lonely guy with bad manners."

Lestrade spotted a taxi and raised his arm. "Can I confide something in you?"

" _No_ ," Donovan said firmly.

"Sherlock…"

"No," she said again, "I don't want to know. I don't want to know any of his secrets. Don't tell me anything."

Lestrade was quiet a moment. The taxi he'd been waving at didn't stop and passed right by. He watched it go. Then he said, "We role-play conversations."

Donovan groaned and stared at Lestrade. "Why did you tell me that?!"

"Me and Molly take turns, playing the parts of strangers and clients and acquaintances, and teach him how to hold a conversation without casually insulting people. It's really hard."

Donovan smirked, imagining it. "How long can he go?"

"What you mean? Without insulting someone?"

"Yeah. How many minutes can he last?"

"Um."

"How many seconds, then?"

"We don't…measure it like that."

"So, you want me to come over and be a guinea pig?"

"Sorta, yeah." The taxi Lestrade waved at began to maneuver towards them and slow down. "He's got it in his head that he's going to go over to Harry's one day and see John and talk to him. Give him back some odd knick-knacks he left behind in the flat. A mug. His shaving kit. He wants to be civil and well-behaved and courteous."

The taxi pulled up to the curb, but Donovan was just staring at Lestrade. "Wait. He _knows_ , right?"

Lestrade just gave Donovan a look.

Donovan pressed, "Sherlock knows….that John's…?"

Lestrade opened the taxi door for Donovan. He said, "Sherlock will never work up the nerve to go to Harry's."

Donovan stared at Lestrade, wide-eyed.

"And he's never going to be a detective again, either," Lestrade said, "despite what he says. He talks about it, taking it up again, but then I'll show him a newspaper headline and say, 'Well, what do you think of this? Don't you think this is suspicious?' and he'll just get this look on his face and I put that newspaper right back down. He's never going back out there again. I know it. He's lost his…whatever. Drive. Whatever he had. The spark." He shook his head.

"That's...a shame," Donovan said with begrudging sincerity. "He was…really, something. When he wasn't a total ass, he was something."

"He was," Lestrade agreed. Then he added, "They both were. They were really great together."

Donovan said, "Well, if he ever gets bitten by the bug, don't bring him around any of _my_ crime scenes."

"I've learned my lesson, Sally." Lestrade looked around wistfully. "I still care about my team, even if it's not my team anymore. I'm glad that you're DA. I'm proud of you. You deserve it. I know you'll do right by our people."

Donovan climbed into the taxi. "Maybe I will come over for coffee sometime."

"We'd all like that."

Donovan hesitated, about to close the door. She said, "Tell him I said 'Hi.'"

"I will."

"Take care, Greg."

"Good night, Detective Inspector."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

_Click. Click-click-click-click. Click._

Lestrade opened his eyes and nudged the blanket from over his face and saw the kitchen partition was drawn shut and the frosted glass in the doors glowed from the light on over the sink. By Sherlock's silhouette, he knew the former consulting detective was at the kitchen table and, by the sounds, typing away on his laptop.

He stood up from the couch, yawning and scratching his hair. Other than the kitchen light, it was black in the flat. There wasn't a clock around, so Lestrade couldn't guess what time it was. He padded across the flat to the kitchen doors and pushed them apart, blinking sleepily into the light. "Hey." He saw Sherlock had a steaming mug.  "You make enough for two?"

Sherlock paused in his writing, looking perturbed at being interrupted. "Considering its three am, the only time I can have peace and privacy while I work, I assumed everyone would be asleep, so naturally, _no_ , I didn't…" He stopped.

Sherlock did a self-check. He started again, this time more slowly and more calculated and with a softer tone; "Good morning, Greg."

"Good morning, Sherlock."

"I didn't mean to wake you up. Would you like some coffee?"

"I'd like that, thanks."

Sherlock got up from the table and went to the counter. He started making a fresh pot. His movements were entirely mechanical. It was taking every ounce of strength to wrench himself away from his computer and do something else. After a minute, his muscles un-bunched as his mind disconnected from the interrupted task and focused on the new one.

Lestrade opened the doors more fully and let himself in. He sat down in the seat across from Sherlock's and watched him empty the coffee filter into the trash and then rinse it in the sink. "What are you working on?" Lestrade asked with interest. "Taking up a case?"

"Um. No. Just. Reading up on the old ones."

 _Reading John's blog, then,_ Lestrade thought. "What are you writing?"

"Some thoughts."

Lestrade nodded.

As the coffee pot began to percolate, Sherlock returned to his chair. He settled in and stared at the laptop screen, his fingers threaded together, his lips pressed against his hands. He was thinking about where he left off.

Lestrade said sadly, "He's not going to write back to you, Sherlock."

Sherlock said nothing.

"That blog hasn’t updated in over a year. Let it go."

"I'm not just going to pretend we were never friends."

Lestrade sighed. "You don't _forget,_ mate. You just…move on."

Sherlock rested his hands on the keyboard, at the ready. He said, "John is a kind and loyal person. I had complete trust in him."

"Which is what made what happened so inexcusable."

Sherlock said pointedly, "Promising him my unconditional friendship, telling him he was my brother, all while taking advantage of his feelings for me, attacking his dignity, and undermining his happiness and mocking his future." Sherlock began to type slowly. "I agree. Inexcusable."

Lestrade was stunned. He said gently, "I don't mean to sound patronizing, Sherlock, but victims always find ways to blame themselves."

Sherlock said without looking up, "I don't even know how to respond to that. I'm not a victim."

Lestrade asked, "How many times did you try and make peace with John? How many times did you offer to talk it out? How many times did he respond with hostility? With violence?"

"Just once," Sherlock responded immediately. "Just one night while John was very, very drunk." He continued typing without pause. "Twice if you count an ignored text."

Lestrade nodded. "And you're going to make excuses for him? He was drunk, so he wasn't responsible for his actions? And what about when he _outed_ you? He wasn't drunk then. He was just being spiteful."

Sherlock said, "I am not some traumatized house wife getting beaten by her husband. I am a human being with my _own_ mind and my own personal sense of justice. I know the difference between the blanketed, blind, fair-for-all way the justice system handles criminals…and how a man should treat another man, one-on-one. I can forgive John if I want, no matter how unpalatable you find it, no matter if it smacks of domestic abuse." Sherlock went on, "I know you still have the mind-set of a police officer. But I don't need protection. I am aware that what John did was wrong. Nonetheless. It's in the past and I'm ready to move forward."

Lestrade said, "So…what? It's all forgiven, then? Just like that."

"Just like that," Sherlock confirmed.

Lestrade implored, "You wanted to _kill yourself_ , mate. He hurt you. He hurt you like…I've never seen you hurt. You can't tell me it doesn't matter to you. You were a different person for months. I didn't know you. You were a stranger."

Finally, Sherlock stopped typing. "He _did_ hurt me." He looked up at Lestrade pointedly. "He hurt me. He betrayed me, he broke my confidence, and he attacked me when I was at my most vulnerable. He left me so shaken, I thought…." Sherlock's voice trailed off. He resumed typing. "I thought I was on fire."

"On fire?"

"Molly can explain it better," Sherlock said. He typed away.

Lestrade asked, "So why is it okay today? Why are you okay right now but not then?"

"It's _not_ okay," Sherlock said.

Lestrade objected, "But you just said…?"

Sherlock put down his hands in frustration. But before he could shout at Lestrade a million insults, he took a deep breath. "Let me explain a different way," Sherlock offered. "What John did is _not okay_. But I forgive him. That doesn't make what he did right. It just means I forgive him. I wasn't ready to forgive him before, but now I am. As the wronged party, it's my prerogative to be as angry as I want for as long as I want. Except being angry and miserable and regretful is quite frankly exhausting. I want my life back. All of it. I'm ready to accept John back in my life." Sherlock looked at the screen. "Except he never answers his phone."

Lestrade cleared his throat.  He asked, "Have you looked for him?"

Sherlock said, "No. I feel leery about going to Harry's. If John's avoiding me, I may not be welcome. We didn't part under the best of terms, if you remember. I don't want to provoke the wrong reaction if he's still feeling bitter."

Lestrade said carefully, "I don't....think…John is staying at Harry's."

Sherlock looked at Lestrade with interest. "Why? Where do you think he is?"

Lestrade said, "I don't actually know where John is."

Sherlock just looked at Lestrade. His back straightened as the information sank in.

Lestrade added, "I haven't known where John is for a few months." He paused. "Nobody knows where John is, even Mycroft."

Understanding settled over Sherlock. He sat back in his chair. "Oh." He thought for a moment. "Bank account activity?"

"He hasn't cashed a pension check or made a withdrawal for two months."

Sherlock asked, "His phone? The GPS?"

"Found in a rubbish bin in a park."

Sherlock pressed his hands together and rested his fingers on his mouth. "Harry?"

"Hasn't seen him in two months. She was the one who called the police."

"His therapist? Ella?"

"Stopped showing up for appointments," Lestrade said. "And he stopped filling his prescriptions at the same time."

"Prescriptions?" Sherlock asked. "What was he taking?"

"Zoloft for depression and Ambien for insomnia."

Sherlock took in the information and said nothing. Eventually, he put his hands in his lap and bowed his head.

Lestrade's heart was heavy with guilt. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock didn't respond. He turned his attention back to his laptop. He placed his hands on the keys and resumed typing.

Lestrade asked, "Do you want to do something in his honor?"

Sherlock asked, "Like what?"

"I dunno. Something."

"I don't think it would make any difference to _him_. I don't believe in an afterlife. I don't believe we're punished for our sins or rewarded for our good deeds in the hereafter, or that our loved ones look down at us in scorn or affection and I don't believe we're reunited when we die. If we want to make the most our ourselves, if we want to 'honor' the people we know, we ought to do it when it matters; when we're here, when we're together. Everything else is just empty sentiment." Sherlock paused. "I think the coffee's ready." He got back up. "Sugar? Cream?"

"Yes, please."

Sherlock got a mug from the cabinet and poured Lestrade's coffee and fixed it for him, just as he asked. Then he placed the mug carefully onto the table.

Lestrade took it and sipped. "That's good. Thanks."

Sherlock turned off the coffee pot. He looked out the kitchen window.

Lestrade asked, "You okay?"

Sherlock parted the blinds and looked out at the city. "Yes."

"If you want to talk about it…"

"I'm fine. I'm just thinking." Sherlock turned around. "I'm assuming you're already keeping tabs on the John Does coming into the local morgues. And that Mycroft already has feelers out, looking for John?"

Hesitantly, Lestrade answered, "Yes…"

Sherlock began pacing. " _Where_ and _when_ was the last confirmed sighting?"

Lestrade answered uncomfortably, "Well, the police found his phone in a park rubbish bin in July, but the last time he was spotted on a CCTV was in June."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Well. It didn't sit in a trash bin for two months. The cameras didn't capture a still of John in the park?"

"Well, no."

Sherlock said impatiently, "Well, obviously _someone_ threw it away. If John isn't on the cameras, then someone else threw it away for him."

"What?" Lestrade said. "Why would someone do that?"

"Maybe John gave it away," Sherlock suggested. "It was an expensive phone, so maybe he traded it for something he needed, however it's unlikely, seeing as how he had a pension check coming to him. Maybe someone stole it from him. Maybe someone mugged him or killed him and took whatever they thought was valuable, but I think if he'd been obviously murdered, his body would have been found by now and we'd know." He circled the kitchen as he thought out loud. "Maybe he was planning to commit suicide and he gave the phone for someone else to discard for the specific purpose of making his body difficult to find and recover, leaving us all to wonder." At that, he paused and looked at Lestrade. "See the logic in that?"

"No," Lestrade said.

"Exactly," Sherlock said, smiling. "He's in hiding. He gave the phone to someone else who threw it away and he's hiding somewhere."

Lestrade just looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock's smile drooped. "What? What's that look for?"

Lestrade didn't answer. He took a sip of his coffee.

Sherlock jammed his hands in his pockets, looking put-out. "You think I'm…rationalizing, don't you?" He rocked back on his heels. "That I'm…trying to write a happy ending for John in my mind."

Lestrade sighed. "John isn't a….a _case_ , Sherlock. Don't do this to yourself."

Sherlock turned away. "Yeah." He sounded disappointed again.

Lestrade sat quietly over his coffee. He said, "If you value the friendship that you _had_ , remember if for what it was. Don't let your memory of John deteriorate into a case-of-the-week."

"No, I understand." Slowly, Sherlock went back to his seat and sank down in it. He resumed typing.

Lestrade rose up. "It's too early, even with coffee. I'm sorry I interrupted."

"Your company is always welcome," Sherlock said. He meant it with such earnest sincerity, it came out sounding bitter. His own tone startled him. Sherlock realized he didn't know how to tell another person he loved them. He made a mental note to talk to his therapist about it.

"I'm going to lay back down," Lestrade said.

"Good night," Sherlock bade him.

"You ever going to go to bed?" Lestrade asked.

"I'm almost done here," Sherlock assured him, nodding at his computer. Studying the computer screen, he said quietly to himself, "I'm just a fucking nothing to him, I'm nobody. Just a pathetic cripple he picked up for kicks."

"Hmm?" Lestrade hummed.

"Nothing, just thinking," Sherlock dismissed absently.

"Alright." When Lestrade got up, he went to Sherlock and put a brother hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He gave a gentle squeeze.

The gesture made Sherlock stop briefly.

Lestrade smirked and let himself out of the kitchen.

Sherlock waited for Lestrade to settled back down, then he re-read over all he had written. He typed more. He stopped. He re-read. He typed some more. He erased. Re-wrote. Re-read. Typed.

He carried on until dawn. Just as the sun was peering over his shoulder from the window, he was re-reading the very last paragraph of the very lengthy letter he had written.

He stared at the screen for a while.

After much internal deliberation, Sherlock posted his letter to _The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson_. Then he waited. He waited for an hour, refreshing the page every few minutes, in the hope that there would be a reply.

It didn't come.

The sun rose higher outside.

Sunlight warmed Sherlock's back. He waited.

He re-read his letter again to kill time:

_Dear John,_

_I sincerely hope that you are well._

_I have been released from the hospital and, after a brief stay with Mycroft,  I've returned home to 221b Baker St. I see that you have finished moving out. Thank you for generously paying your portion of the rent in advance. It has allowed me to take some much needed time off of work. However, please contact me so I may refund you. Molly and Lestrade have taken up residence with me in your absence, and they contribute enough to satisfy the remainder of the lease._

_Forgive me for posting such a personal letter in this public forum, but I don't know how else to contact you. I understand you no longer have a fixed address and you've recently discarded your phone. I want you to know that there are many people worried about you, myself and your sister especially, and if you are able, please let us know that you are okay. If you have reservations in regards to contacting me personally, please reach out to Ella or Harry or Mike Stamford or Lestrade or Molly Hooper or Mrs. Hudson or my brother. Or, if you wish to maintain your privacy, please contact Scotland Yard and whatever message you leave them will be forwarded to us and I assure you that we will all respect your wishes to be left alone._

_With that said, I believe I owe you some apologies._

_I'm sorry for calling you an idiot. I'm sorry for calling you stupid. You are neither of those things. On the contrary, I think you are brilliant. You deserve nothing short of my absolute admiration. I liked you from the moment I met you. You earned my respect and my trust almost immediately and you continuously surprised me again and again with your loyalty, your courage and your kindness. It was very easy for me to take it for granted that no matter how difficult I made things, you always met my impossible expectations._

_I was not a good friend to you. For that, I am deeply regretful. I don't know why I thought it was acceptable to me to hurt you, why I thought it was okay for me to insult you and demean you the way I did. I suppose I considered myself entitled. That years of teasing and harassment at the hands of my peers gave me the right to visit petty cruelties on others, even though I knew from experience that words aren't harmless. But you reminded me how words can hurt. Thank you. I know that must sound odd, but thank you. It gave me much needed perspective. In an effort to modify my behavior, and to sort out some other things, I attend therapy three times a week and Lestrade and Molly actively function as my coaches. I didn't realize how challenging it would be to change a few simple habits, but I'm working hard. If nothing else, I promise that when we meet again you'll encounter a very different man._

_There are other things I should probably apologize for. I'm sure you and I could compile quite a list. If you're willing to meet with me, we could write one together. We can go line by line and discuss how I can be a better friend. And if there was something you'd like to say, something you'd like to get off your chest, I would listen. No judgments, no expectations._

_Now, allow me to offer forgiveness._

_I don't believe for a moment that there's any real bigotry in your heart, though you may disagree. When I first came out, you were as kind and as brotherly as I've ever seen you. I was moved by your acceptance. You extended all your compassion and understanding to me at my most vulnerable moment. You welcomed me and treated me like a brother. That night remains my fondest memory._

_And in return, I continued to treat you with disrespect. I realize now how disappointing that must have been for you. I have come to understand that this was why you were angry. I completely misunderstood why you felt the way you did. You may even have misunderstood why you were angry with me. I mislabeled your resentment as homophobia. I approached you all wrong. I take full responsibility for my part in this mess. As for all that came after…I forgive you. If my forgiveness means anything at all, I forgive you. I'd like to say so in person._

_However, should you be unwilling to see me, I understand. I'm not interested in holding grudges. Let there be no ugliness between us. If a clean break is what you desire, let us part ways here, no hang-ups, no anger and, most importantly, no blame._

_Please remember one thing though; it took Mycroft and I ten years to reconcile, but now we are trying. I never thought it would happen, and it still surprises us both. If in ten years or twenty years you look back on me with longing or regret, know that I will welcome your e-mail or phone call no matter how far the future it may come. I will always consider you my mate._

_I hope I am a better man for having known you. Your friendship has been a limitless resource that I will forever be able to draw from. I can ceaselessly dispense all the love you've given to me to everyone I have ever known or will ever meet, and still have an inexhaustible, life-time supply for myself. Thank you for being my friend._

_Again, I hope you're well. I worry about you. Please call. Please write. Please come by the flat. Please._

_Your brother for life,_

_Sherlock_

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

The end.

**Author's Note:**

> Candid feedback, criticism, praise and flames all greatly appreciated. Be as ruthless or as kind as you like.


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